


Reunited

by SheyRicci



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23857567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: Brock and Clay are separated from the rest of Bravo and taken to a local hospital...
Comments: 42
Kudos: 211





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all are staying safe. Prayers to everyone during this time of global crisis.  
> So, this storyline (or one along the lines of) was suggested and I attempted it, might fall short, but...well, angst, self-doubt and blame thyself, is not my style. All I can say is, I tried.

With everyone wearing night vision, it was easy to keep an eye on Bravo One's raised hand. All eyes ignored the surrounding area, watched only him and waited for the countdown of tucking one finger at a time into a fist until there were none – their signal to attack.

Five, four, three…..

The night exploded into bursts of light. The ground beneath their feet vibrated, the walls behind their shoulders shook. Debris toppled, fire flared, dust rose, smoke spread.

"Bravo, what did I just see?" Eric Blackburn, Bravo's Lieutenant Commander, barked into the phone receiver. "Bravo One?"

Command center erupted into frantic chaos. People jockeyed for position at key boards. Large screens on the wall came to life. Drones were redirected. Satellite footage was booted up, brought on-line.

"Bravo One?"

"Was that gun shots? Were shots fired?!"

"Explosion!"

"Was that a rocket grenade!"

"Fire?! Is there a fire? Can anyone confirm?"

"Report!"

"What we got?"

"BRAVO ONE?"

"Building on east block has collapsed!"

"That's close to where Bravo was."

"Lost video feed from drone four."

"DAMMIT! Site rep! BRAVO ONE?!"

"No movement."

"WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"

"Check that, civilians in the streets."

"Air is two mikes out."

"Ground's scrambled."

"BRAVO ONE? BRAVO?"

"Ground is on the move."

"DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY VISUAL?"

"We're blind."

"We're up, but can't see. Too much smoke, dust."

"Nadda."

"No further explosions, sir."

()()()

Jason remained crouched down and hunched over until the deafening sounds of explosions and what sounded like gun shots dimmed and finally ceased. Though the night was now lit by what seemed like numerous burning fires, his ability to see further than the length of his arm was hindered by smoke, dust and debris.

If his comms were working, his ears weren't, because he couldn't hear any voices. Just distant, dull, muted sounds that made him feel like he was under water. Coughing into the crook of his elbow, he slowly rose, turned around, leaned against whatever part of the wall remained to give him support.

He knew the rule was to stop, attempt to make contact with HAVOC, take stock of his own injuries, but he didn't know what had happened and his men were out there somewhere – and they came first.

Fuck the damn rule book.

He could stand. Wobblily.  
He could see. Mostly.  
He had two arms, two hands and ten fingers that wouldn't stay still.  
He had two legs and boots on his feet and there were two of those too.  
His helmet remained on his head.  
His ears were still attached, though not working correctly.  
He knew, because he wormed his fingers under the protective flaps, felt them.

Despite the activity going on all around him, he pushed out of his secure spot, headed for the nearest location where one of his men had been.

Brock was coming at him, charging forward like a boar breaking through thick briar. He was shouting….Jason knew this because Brock ignored his out-stretched hand, veered sharply and bee-lined off to the right. So, someone must have answered his shout.

Maybe the dog.

No…no, they hadn't brought the dog. Right? Cerberus was back at the base of command with Blackburn. Jason frowned, winced when his head protested the mere facial contortion, swung around to follow Brock.

Brock hopped over a mound of rock and dirt, slid down the other side, began to dig. Jason joined him. Brock was talking, Jason could actually see his mouth move, his night vision goggles remained intact and in place, but he couldn't hear a word - only sounds that sounded remarkably like the response that came from Charlie Brown's off-the-screen teacher.

Hearing damage?  
Trauma?  
Stress?  
Half his head gone?

They freed Sonny, who despite numerous cuts and scrapes and one profusely bleeding wound, was otherwise whole and hale. Brock was pulling a strip of cloth from his fanny pack as Jason patted the Texan down. When Jason nodded all was good, he'd found no further injuries on Sonny, Brock ignored his yelp of outrage and pain, tied the cloth securely and tightly over his left bicep. With a pat on his shoulder and a nod to his boss, Brock was off and moving.

Sonny slapped Jason on the back, moved after him, left Jason to bring up the rear.

Brock collected teammates as they scoured the area. First Sonny, then Metal. Vic, Ray. Then Trent.

And just guess who remained missing.

Jason, deprived of one of his main senses, felt like it had taken over an hour to gather his men together, see for himself that they were alive and whole - minus some skin, some blood, but no limbs, no loss of life. In fact, it had been less than five minutes and three of those had been spent yelling and calling and searching where Clay should have been.

"HERE!" yelled someone but Jason didn't hear, didn't rush with the others, didn't duck the chunk of debris that clipped him in the shoulder, knocked him off balance.

Dazed, he stumbled, went to his knees. Metal grabbed his arm, dragged him to his feet and pulled him away. He resisted but his balance was off, his legs wouldn't obey the commands he was sending them and he went with Metal who led him to a mostly intact building that would provide shelter and protection.

"Stay down." Metal ordered. He didn't want to argue or physically restrain his boss, but he did. He held tight and kept him down when he stupidly and stubbornly, repeatedly tried to leave. He didn't stop or settle down until his men came in, carrying Clay, and dragging Sonny.

Flashlights were turned on, the floor was kicked clean, Clay was put down, flat on his back. Sonny was howling because Trent had his fingers in whatever wound was bleeding the most. There was nothing slow, careful, gentle or delicate when it came to field medicine.

"SONOFABITCH!" Sonny roared. "FUCK THAT HURTS!" He _sat_ still but couldn't _be_ still. Ray hugged him from behind, holding him down while Trent probed. "DAMMIT TRENT!"

Trent ignored him. A tourniquet was applied, a bottle was opened. Sonny's hand was grabbed, his arm extended, held still. Scissors cut his sleeve from wrist to armpit. Liquid splashed over the open wound. Sonny hissed, cursed, thumped his heels against the floor but otherwise held still.

"Do you HAVE to do that?" Sonny groused, fingers curled into a tight, proper fist. "JESUS!"

Trent rubbed and dabbed, poured more, tore a package open with his teeth, swabbed the wound, poured the rest of the bottle. Seconds later, Sonny was stapled, taped, wrapped and forgotten as Trent turned his attention to Clay.

"Hell!" Sonny worked on making his breath even. "I'm not gonna forget that." But he went ignored, by everyone.

"You're fine." Trent blew him off. "Just a scratch."

"What we got?" Ray squatted down on Clay's other side as Trent felt for broken bones. Poked, prodded, patted, palpated, pushed, pulled, pinched. "You good?" Trent nodded, so Ray pointed to Jason. Trent responded by tapping his ear. Ray got it, gave the medic a thumbs up.

Temporarily deaf was all. Jason still had his balance, had no trouble walking. Would turn his head in directions of loud sounds. Far as Trent was concerned, their boss was fine.

Trent pulled a pen light, checked Clay's eyes, counted his pulse, best as he could.

Pupils reactive to light.  
Breathing unrestricted.  
Heart rate normal.  
He wasn't bleeding.  
Hadn't been shot.  
Had no visible wounds, no sign on any internal bleeding.

Clay didn't normally 'just faint', but he'd just recovered from a combination of cold/flu and he hadn't slept well on the flight over, so Trent cracked open a vial of 'smelling salts', moved away as far as he could, stretched out, waved the bottle beneath Clay's nose, reared back when the blonde flailed, striking out at anyone within distance.

And that was Vic. Who took a fist to the face. Because the rest of Bravo knew better than to remain too close to their 'rookie' sniper when Trent was waking him up via ammonia.

Trent cracked a grin, slapped Vic on the back hard enough to knock him forward.

"Take note." He cautioned. "Be aware of your surroundings."

"The hell you talking about?" Vic fingered his split lip. Great, it would swell and everyone would joke that he'd gotten a fat lip by a dude flat on his back.

"Guess you didn't notice no one was close enough to him to get hit." Metal intoned. "Except you."

Vic cursed, moved away, shrugged off Brock's attempt to look at his mouth, ignored his question about lose teeth. Being the newest member on any team - sucked, but he'd encountered shit on Bravo he'd never experienced anywhere else.

"What the hell happened?" Sonny asked. He was on his feet, patrolling, looking, peeking, listening. Like Metal, he was armed and if anything moved, it would be shot.

They all paused and listened, Trent held Clay down by a knee on his shoulder, put a finger against the blonde's lips who was waking up and gaining his senses, his bearings. He understood his medic's gesture, didn't even attempt to sit up.

There was no sound of rapid gun fire. No shots were even being fired. No sounds of vehicles. Just panicked voices, crying children, screaming women, shouting men. No shouts of: 'find them' or 'kill them'.

"Clay?" Ray asked. "What can you make out?"

Clay stirred, raised his knees, planted his heels, tried to sit up. Trent didn't let him. Metal, Brock and Sonny were openly standing in the door or peering out windows. Nothing and no one were coming at them. It was like no one even cared they were there – or knew.

"Explosion at a factory." Clay coughed, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Water?" He was handed a bottle with his preferred pop-up tab. "It was…..there were third-shift workers inside." He swallowed, listened, winced at the noise outside. "Building collapsed, took others nearby with it." He paused, drank some more. "Buildings aren't too sturdy over here. People are trapped."

"And factories over here employ children." Ray said grimly.

"Third shift?" Vic questioned.

"Not America." Brock reminded him.

"Clay, your head hurt?" Trent watching him closely, trusting his teammates to cover their safety, hadn't missed the wince or the half-open eyes. "Jason, sit down."

"He can't hear you."

"Metal," Trent motioned.

"Got'im." Metal 'assisted' his boss back to the rickety chair he'd been sitting on. "Diversion for Haseem to flee, you think?" He questioned, Ray nodded, Brock shrugged.

"If he was even here." Vic added.

"Doesn't matter." Clay tried again to sit up, this time Trent eased the pressure from his leg, let him come up on his elbows. "People were hurt, trapped."

"Sit up slow." Trent warned. "Dizzy?"

"No. I'm good."

Trent removed his knee, let Clay sit up. "Anything? Who am I?"

Clay shook his head. "I'm good Trent. No pain, no nausea." He patiently sat, let Trent do another exam. "Okay, bit of pain….mostly from noise."

"Who's he?" Trent pointed to Vic, the newest member to the team, Clay's least favorite teammate and the man everyone knew the least.

"Lopez." He accepted Brock's hand and rose to his feet. "We should help."

"Help?" Vic repeated. "Help who? Why? This isn't our problem."

"Because they're innocent people caught up in violence that has nothing to do with them." Sonny shot back.

"Yeah, not you." Trent said. "You and Jason are going back to the base infirmary."

"It's just a scratch." Sonny blew the medic off. "You did me up, I'm good."

"Not up for discussion." Ray took Trent's side. "Clay, you sure you're good?" He turned to Trent without waiting for Clay to answer. "Trent? He good?"

"He's good." Trent nodded. "No sign of a concussion, no lump on his head, no evidence of trauma. He feels dizzy or pukes, he'll tell me, right Spenser?"

"Right, sure."

"He was unconscious." Ray reminded everyone.

"Meh." Trent hoisted his medical backpack. "I'll be here, he'll come tell me, his shit goes sideways."

Jason nodded his permission, though Ray had no idea if Jason even knew what he was agreeing to...oh wait, no he did. Metal was writing on a notepad, so Ray had to accept his team was staying.

Air support came first.  
Then ground.  
Sonny and Jason were returned to base via chopper.  
The rest of Bravo remained to figure out what happened and to lend help where they could.

()()()

"Blackburn?" Covered in soot, ash, dust and blood, Ray jogged down the hallway, slowed to a sedate pace when he saw his team's commander chatting with a doctor, calmly sipping coffee. Eric wasn't frantic, wasn't pacing. His hair wasn't disheveled from pushing his hands through it, he wasn't tapping a foot, his hands weren't on his hips.

He was calm, relaxed, neither tense nor anxious. All must be good. Still, seeing his team's Lt. Commander in the hallway had thrown him for a loop. One didn't normally see Blackburn idly chatting up a doctor unless something was wrong or someone was seriously hurt. Like, life-altering hurt.

"Perry." Eric, tipping his cardboard container of coffee-flavored water in the direction of Ray, greeted. "They're not chasing you, they want to help you."

"What?" Ray came to a halt. Not the greeting he was expecting. "Uh, yeah. Any update?" He now noticed the trailing two infirmary workers. "Oh, sorry."

"What are you doing here?" Eric asked, accepted the rifle Ray handed him, then the backpack, the sidearm, the knife. "You bring someone in? Spenser? Sonny said he was knocked unconscious."

"Where else would I go?" He gave Eric his extra round clips. "Sonny and Jason were brought here. Any word?" He paused, patted his many pockets. "Spenser's still onsite. He's good."

"Sonny's awake, getting stitched up, CT confirms no damage to blood vessels or muscle."

Ray swallowed, was patting his pockets, somewhat distracted. Yeah, Trent had said as much. Still, hearing it from a doctor after x-rays and a scan, was closure. "Jason?"

"He reacts to loud noises, responds to pain. Not too happy being separated from his team."

Ray blew his breath out, unaware he'd been holding it. "So, both gonna be okay?" That explained why Blackburn was at the infirmary. Not because one of his men were seriously injured, but because one of them had to be handled. 'Cause yeah, Spenser out of Jason's sight when their boss didn't know what happened, wouldn't go over well. Bravo One wouldn't be happy until he was reunited with his entire team.

"This op went sideways six ways to Sunday." Eric set his coffee on a nearby ledge, took whatever Ray handed to him. "Jason's going to be fine. His hearing is already returning. Where's everyone else?"

"Still in the field." Ray patted his hair, dust rose, everyone stepped back. "Village was hit." He clarified at Eric's blank look. "You know Trent, and he needs Clay so," he shrugged. "You know damn well Brock isn't going to leave either one of them."

"Not our problem." Those three, lose and unattended, running amuck in the village? Trouble would find them, guaranteed. Ray should have stayed with them, Eric understood his need to check on Jason, but….. "We're still gathering intel, collecting evidence, but once we knew you were all safe, it looks more and more like it was just a faulty gas line in an unstable building that was over-occupied. The power grid was maxed beyond..."

"People were hurt." Ray stated. "Metal stayed with them."

"Lopez?" Blackburn questioned, raised an eyebrow, his attention successfully diverted.

Ray looked over his shoulder, sighed. "Vic went to wash up." How the younger man could do that without getting an update on his injured teammates first was beyond him. He simply did not understand the man's priorities.

"You didn't order them to return with you?" Eric felt marginally better. Metal was responsible and usually level-headed and knowing he was in the village to keep an eye on those three, made Eric breathe just a little easier.

But not much.

"Oh yeah, yeah, I did. Worked real well." Ray confirmed. He'd been flipped off, ignored and patted on the head. "Okay, I'm ready. You good here?" He wore only his long-sleeved shirt and pants, every other article of clothing and equipment he'd worn or carried in, sat on the floor around Eric. Except the weapons, those Eric held.

"Go." Eric tilted his head in the direction of the two hospital workers who had trailed Ray. "Go get checked out."

Ray out of sight, Eric made a phone call and within minutes, someone had arrived to relieve him of everything Ray had left behind.

"Thanks Doc." Eric juggled various weapons, reached to shake the man's hand as the soldier who had responded to his call picked up Ray's vest and helmet from the floor. "I'll take Jason with me." He chuckled at the doctor's relieved expression. "Guess that means he's good to go?" The doctor nodded. "Ray will remain and make sure Sonny is returned to base and….." Vic strolled up. "Lopez," He frowned at the man whose appearance he felt should have been sooner. "Take a wrong turn?"

"What? No."

"Got lost? Didn't know where I was?"

"We were told….I don't….what?"

Eric shook his head. His ride was waiting. "I'm returning to base with your boss so Davis doesn't haven't to peel him off the ceiling on her own."

"What? She can't handle him?" Vic scoffed.

"Get checked out, then stay with Ray, wait for Sonny."

"Say what now?" Vic pivoted. "Can't I go back with you?" He was dirty, dusty and wanted a hot shower, clean clothes.

Eric paused, tossed his empty coffee up into a trash can, kept walking. "If you need to see a medical professional, tell the doctor."

()()()

Bravo was still at the village because Trent wasn't ready to go. No, it wasn't their job to stay and help, but medical aid was required and first responders were not that experienced nor were there that many of them.

While Clay had stayed with Trent to interpret, manage the injured and sort by who needed the most care, Metal and Brock had organized the residents clearing debris from collapsed buildings, looking for anyone trapped or just clearing a room in a building that was still sturdy enough to provide residents somewhere to take shelter. The explosion had occurred in one building, but the outward blast had caused damage to other structures as well. Such as a partially caved in roof or a buckled wall.

Time passed, no one knew how much or cared. The work seemed never-ending, the need for assistance great, but as hours passed and more volunteers and authorized personnel with machinery and equipment arrived, Bravo found with the extra help, the need for theirs had dwindled and they all, save Trent, were ready to pack it in and return to the base for hot showers and comforting food.

So Metal had been tasked with retrieving Trent, while Brock, tired and dirty, his hands scraped, bruised and bleeding, sat waiting for them on an overturned crate, Clay sprawled on his back in the dirt at his feet, watching the cut on the heel of his thumb bleed through yet another layer of bandages.

Ooooh, Trent wasn't going to be happy. He'd wanted Brock to return with Ray and Vic, get it looked at, at the infirmary but Brock had refused, said he was fine, so Trent had burned the cut with a caustic stick – ruthlessly, mind you, and hadn't that felt great – applied Dermabond, a bandage, taped him up and told him to get out of his sight.

Huh, he'd thought by now, the multiple layers of tight bandages along with the earlier treatment would have stopped the bleeding, but it hadn't. He wasn't in pain, his thumb wasn't numb. He could move, but not bend it, the layers were too many but it still bled.

He decided to ignore it.

He sipped water from a bottle someone at some time had handed him but it tasted like cinder, was warm. No wonder Clay always wanted it ice cold. He moved slightly, ducked his head with a weak grin. Though a bottle of water was balanced on his belly, the kid wasn't drinking.

Clay was bouncing back from the flu, still fought fatigue, tired easily, but had been cleared to return to duty by Navy doctors. He hadn't run a fever or coughed up icky colored phlegm for five consecutive days now. Woot.

The team Doc, courtesy of heavy influence from Trent, Brock didn't doubt, had stressed: no hiking, no diving, no jumping, no swimming, no repelling, no climbing, no running.

He hadn't specified: no digging, no lifting, no carrying of heavy objects. HAHA! Or getting knocked unconscious by a falling building! HAHAHAHA!

Brock gave the blonde sniper a nudge with his toe in the hip, had his foot swatted away. Clay was fine, just taking a break – same as Brock. Just, unlike Brock, Clay always sought out someone he knew to be with, when he let his guard down.

Blackburn had sent men from the base to aid and assist and they'd relayed the information that Blackburn had returned to command with Jason, who was now able to hear, and Ray had followed with Sonny once the Texan had been released from care. Vic hadn't been mentioned and no one had spared a moment to ask.

"Gonna let Trent look at your hand?" Clay had his arm crossed over his eyes. He was exhausted and he ached in places he'd never ached before – like the back of his fucking knees. And that was saying something, considering his training.

Brock rolled his head along the wall he was slumped against, cast a dubious look at his traitorous thumb. "It's good."

Clay sat up, remained on his ass, splayed his legs. Ow. Doing squats with a weighted barbell on his shoulders had nothing on squatting and lifting concrete. "Bullshit."

"What?" Brock lifted his head, raised his hands, waggled his fingers. "My hand's fine, dumbass." He was quiet. "See?" he held it up, but even in the odd light, blood could be seen trickling towards his elbow. Clay smirked, toasted the air with the bottle of water. Brock frowned. "Oh."

Metal came back.

"On your feet." He ordered. "Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"Humvee Blackburn sent to retrieve us, is here. We're leaving, it's not an option. Move."

"Hell, we're ready to go." Clay winced, hunched to stretch his back. Man, he ached. Trent would tell him, were he to share his aches and pains with the medic, that it was because his body was still recovering from all the inactivity it'd been subjected to when he'd had the flu.

"Trent?"

"He's finishing setting a leg, he'll meet us at the Humvee, now let's go." Metal said impatiently, firmly. The damn medic had better meet them. If he had to go find him, Trent wouldn't like how he made it to the Humvee. Because either conscious and walking under his own power or unconscious and slung over a shoulder, the blasted medic would be leaving.

"Sounds a bit like Jason, don't you think?" Brock slid to his feet, gave Clay a hand up to his feet. He winced, hissed at the sting in his palm, the sudden flair of pain in his thumb when Clay grabbed hold and squeezed. He abruptly let go and Clay thudded to the ground with such a thud, his teeth clacked.

"HEY!" Clay protested. "Ow man, the hell?"

"You gotta squeeze so hard?"

Metal rolled his eyes, started off down the street. "End of the block, turn right." He called over his shoulder. "Three minutes. I gotta come back after your asses, I'm dragging you out by your ankles."

Brock flipped him off, left Clay sitting on the ground, moved off to retrieve the weapons and gear they'd stashed earlier. It was within sight, duh, there was a reason Brock had chosen to take his break where he had. Everything was still where they'd left it…including Clay's sniper rifle, because Brock had checked before sitting down to drink some water and it hadn't been out of his sight since.

If only he could have said the same about Clay.

He knew how to move quickly and quietly. Knew how to gather and collect and carry and stow and manage within seconds. Seconds. It had been seconds. Not even ten. It had been _mere_ seconds.

He'd turned his back to collect their gear; shoulder his backpack. They both still wore their vests, their helmets were sitting near his bottle of water. He had just stooped down to collect their rifles, was slinging his over his shoulder, when….

Clay yelped.

Brock spun. A body lay unmoving in the dirt. Dust had been kicked up, obstructing his ability to see clearly. The sounds of shouting, crying and machinery that not two minutes ago had given him a headache, were now muted and distant, forgotten. Time slowed. Unable to see, convinced it was Clay, Brock's sole focus was getting to the body.

It was his ears that alerted him to the fact something else was wrong. The sounds of grunts, skin on skin, thuds of a punch being landed. How he knew that, knew it was a fist-fight despite the sounds of rescue workers, he didn't know or care, but he did and some part of his brain laughed, thanked God it had been Jason and not he, who had been rendered temporarily deaf.

Despite the darkness brightened only by distant lights, Brock was able to make out three figures fighting through the dim dusk and dust.

Clay.

Unable to bring his rifle around and arm it in time, Brock easily pulled his SIG. As soon as Clay managed to give him an advantage, he took aim. One shot, one dead, one to go.

Before Brock could get off another shot, the man who had been on the ground, kicked Clay's feet out from under him. He went down hard, and the two men ran, dragging the dead assailant with them.

_What the hell was that about?_

Brock didn't give chase. He rushed to his fallen teammate's side, skidded in on his knees, overshot, scrambled back. His hands felt Clay up and down as he repeatedly called his name, gave him a couple slaps across the face, shook him.

"Dammit Clay, come on!" Clay wasn't wearing his helmet either, Brock tugged his fingers through Clay's tangles, feeling for a lump or broken skin anywhere on his skull. "Hey, need you with me here."

_Don't do this me, this can't be happening, not again, I took my eyes off you for five fucking seconds, why is it always you?_

Brock produced a pocket-sized flashlight, balanced it between his teeth, saw his fingers were red. Blood. Where the hell had that come from? Not his. So..….

"CLAY?" Panic that he had successfully manage to squelch, kicked up. Clay was bleeding. Wasn't from his head. Had he been shot, stabbed? "Clay! Comeoncomeoncomeon…." A second, more thorough pat-down and his deft fingers found the rend in Clay's shirt sleeve. Stabbed. "Jesus..." He determined that stab wound was in the meaty flesh of Clay's upper arm and not life-threatening. Relief make his knees weak. Clay had deflected the attack and the heavy, unique material of his shirt had slowed the plunge of the knife, so only a superficial wound.

Clay groaned, stirring beneath the hands that patted him down.

Before Brock could calm him, activity around them exploded. People were suddenly there; running, stomping, pushing, shoving; yelling, shouting, screaming, ordering. Hands tried to separate Brock from Clay, stopped when Brock fought back. Questions were asked in the local language. Brock couldn't answer, because he didn't understand what was being said.

Then...a motor. Revved, coming fast. A Humvee. That didn't care about barriers, it barreled through the crowd, forced people to jump and flee to avoid being hit. It slid to an abrupt halt. Doors opened. His name was called. Clay's name. Metal was there. He was pushed back, couldn't get any closer. Someone who wasn't Metal gave orders. Metal didn't like that.

An ambulance. A gurney. Clay was picked up, strapped on it. Trent was there, yelling. He didn't get through.

Brock was swept along with the men carrying the gurney because Clay held tight to his hand. The last he saw of his teammates before the ambulance door was closed, was Trent picking up rifles and helmets and backpacks.

Metal was hopping mad.


	2. Chapter 2

Brock peered out the window a time or two, but it was useless. He couldn't concentrate and he didn't know this town, city, country. He didn't experience any off-gut feelings about the two paramedics taking Clay's vitals and checking for injuries, so he slumped back and focused on the activity in the ambulance, not outside it.

His thumb, which hadn't given him any pain or fits since Trent had fixed him up, chose the first moment he could relax to remind him that despite his attempts to sever it, it was still attached and not going anywhere. It exploded, causing him to shift uncomfortably and cradle his hand against his side. His discomfort grew and after the third wince and hiss of pain, one of the medics shifted around and offered to look at it.

Engaging in a hapless, lackluster slap-flight, Brock cast a glance at Clay who, though restless, wasn't resisting, wasn't fighting either the hands that moved all over him or the straps that secured him to the gurney. Though his blue eyes were only half opened, they were firmly secured on Brock, who gave in and meekly submitted to the medic, not wanting to upset the kid.

The building pressure behind the tight bandages was becoming intolerable and his fingers were swollen and tinged blue, so he held his hand out to the woman who moved to a better position to cut through the dirty, bloody taped bandage with a pair of scissors.

He should have known better. He _did_ know better. He _knew_ Clay wasn't unconscious. He'd watched those blue eyes open and roll and close, open and stare and close, open and search until they saw Brock, then blink blearily every other second or so. Only then had Clay been content to remain quiet and still, and allow the paramedics to examine him.

And yet…by allowing her to see to his hand, she was required to move in front of him and he was blocked from Clay's sight. _He should have known_!

The injured, insensible blonde sniper did not like that. At all. He began to fight. Everything and everyone.

_Slam! Bang! Thump! Crash!_

"Clay?! Hey! HEY!" Brock sat forward, knocked her to one side, reached out to grab hold of Clay wherever he could. "Stop! I'm right here! Okay?! Stop. Stop...I said STOP!"

So focused was he on getting to Clay, he failed to observe the second paramedic, who had a syringe prepared and before Brock could react, jabbed the needle into Clay's arm, just above the bend of his elbow.

"NO!" Brock lunged, was tackled by the female, knocked back. "NO! Don't….NO!" He shook free of the medic, sent her sprawling against the doors, but it was too late, he was unable to stop the medic from thumbing the plunger. "Trent's gonna kill me," he moaned, "He's gonna show up and kill me."

Whether it was his voice or Clay's ability to see him, Brock neither knew nor cared. Clay grabbed Brock's wrist and clung tight – his left hand, went limp.

Brock stifled a yelp. Due to his deep, extensive training, he was able to control his breathing, keep from crying out. That would only set Clay off again. "You're okay." He managed to breathlessly grunt. "Shit." He blinked his eyes into focus, amazed how much destruction Clay had caused strapped down flat on his back in the back of an ambulance – a confined space crowded with three other adults. "Okay? You were jumped, just taking you in, make sure all's good. I'm right here, not going anywhere." He kept babbling, voice soft, tone even to keep Clay calm. "Okay? You good?"

The medic was now helping the woman untangle herself from over-turned bottles and boxes, glared at Brock, began an angry diatribe in his language.

Brock held a hand up, reached out to pull Clay's tags from his shirt, showed them the medic-alert symbol. They both went silent. They couldn't read what it said, but both knew they were at fault for not searching for and finding it themselves because if they had, they wouldn't, shouldn't, have administered any medication.

Clay blinked, frowned at the sudden silence. His eyes were clear, but he didn't speak. Brock thought he was probably wondering why Brock was with him and not Trent. Didn't think it mattered because Clay was content to remain calm as long as Brock was within his sight and he had 'a hand to hold'.

"You're okay." Brock said again as Clay became heavy-lidded and his breathing slowed. He didn't want Clay to blink and not see him again, so he and the paramedic jockeyed positions and he took her place on the small seat next to the gurney where he carefully, with gritted teeth, teased Clay into letting go of his bad hand, and taking hold of the other.

Mind whirling with the possibilities that could happen with Clay now medicated, Brock sat stoically while his thumb was exposed, poked, washed and rewrapped, but damn, it hurt.

She offered him a cloth sling that wasn't adjustable and his first instinct was to shake his head no. He didn't want to chance upsetting Clay again should he see it and not understand what it was, but his hand had felt better when he'd cradled it against his stomach, so he decided to put his comfort ahead of Clay's, and let her help him get it over his head with his hand settled comfortably inside.

Wasn't a good idea.

Apparently, struggling and fighting against the straps that secured him to the gurney, had caused the knife wound to erupt like a fountain and Clay continued to bleed. He didn't take kindly to the pressure being applied to his arm and despite the injection, began to resist. When he saw Brock in a sling, he freaked out.

Brock sighed, cursed, stood up. Would one decision he made this night go right? Just one?

"Hey," He hovered over Clay's face, lowered his head until they were nose-to-nose, cupped an ear, scratched gently. It always worked with dogs, might as well give it a shot. Worth a try anyway. "I'm good Clay, I'm right here. No one's gonna hurt me. Okay? Relax, let them look at your arm…that's it….just gonna stop the bleeding…..you've lost enough."

Clay lost the battle to combat the effects of whatever he'd been given, his eyes finally closed and remained shut. He didn't let go, though and Brock resumed his seat. The support offered by the cloth sling was enough his hand wasn't dangling and the throbbing subsided enough he could ignore it.

Pretty much.

The rest of the ride passed without further incident and then, they were at the hospital where Brock had no intention of allowing Clay to leave his sight.

Didn't happen that way.

()()()

"What do you mean, you _think_ paramedics took them?" Jason demanded angrily. "The hell were you doing when you let this happen?" He knuckled his ear. He could hear fairly normally but there was still a buzzing that though the doctor had said would subside, had yet to do so.

"You weren't there boss. They were driving around for hours, taking injured people." Metal said defensively. "No one was in control, people were just everywhere…."

"They? Who's they? Who was driving around?"

"Taking them where?"

"You just _let_ them take him?" Sonny asked incredulously. "And Brock? You let them? They just drove away? Drove off with our guys? You saw them off with a jaunty wave? That it?"

"Sonny, I got this."

"For all we know, they could be hostages!"

"Blackburn's working on it."

"Not good enough."

Jason spun, rubbed his eyes, tugged on his buzzing ear, frustrated. Nothing about this night had gone right, nothing made sense. He didn't need his men fighting one another or ignoring his orders.

"Sonny, take a walk."

"Ain't got nowhere to go."

"Ray…" Jason began but Ray was already on his feet, reaching for Sonny. "Metal, one more time, from the beginning, how the hell did you let them get taken away?"

Let them? Metal clenched his jaw. He'd _tried_ to stop them! He'd tried to follow them. And why was this on him? What about Trent? He'd been there, no one was reading him the riot act. If he'd come with Metal in the first place, Brock and Clay never would have been left alone. They all would have gone to the Humvee together.

"Don't get the big deal." Vic spoke up. "They are well-trained Tier One operators. Two of the best." He rolled his eyes, threw his hands up. "It's their job."

"Keep talking," Sonny warned, turned back from the door. Ray sighed at Jason's glare, threw his hands up. "You'll have a gap between your teeth to go with that fat lip."

Metal deflated. None of this was Trent's fault. He hadn't left Brock and Clay, walked away. Metal had, and he hadn't had to. He'd gone to have the Humvee drive closer because Clay had looked like a mere breeze would have put him right back on his ass, had he managed to stand.

"Shut up." Jason snapped. "All of you."

"The big deal is…they were jumped, someone was bleeding and I've already got two of you needing stitches. We don't know if Clay was hurt. We know Brock had a cut-up hand. We don't know what happened. We don't know why. We don't know who. We don't know where they were taken, or where they are. We don't know anything and it doesn't matter how well trained you are or what your capabilities are or what your job is." Trent pushed to his feet. "We were there for hours, no one bothered us, paid us any attention. Why jump Clay the moment he was alone?"

"We don't know he was targeted." Vic argued. "You had the Humvee, why didn't you just follow them?"

"You should have been there with us. There was no reason for you to go with Ray to check on Sonny and Jason."

"Not my job to…." He hadn't wanted to stay and dig in dirt and concrete. The easy digging had been over, equipment had been needed for the heavier digging and he'd decided it was time to go. If Ray could leave, well then, he could too.

"Your job is to support and back your teammates." Trent pushed Vic back a step, then two. "Helping people is beneath you? That it?"

"My talents don't include digging in dirt to…." Vic pushed back, but Trent didn't budge, he glared. Vic swallowed, expected to see bared teeth.

"Watch it." Jason warned dangerously. "One more word out of your mouth, and it won't be either of them you have to worry about knocking your teeth out.

Vic gulped, wisely remained silent, but boy, the look on his face clearly said he wanted to continue to argue.

Metal blinked, opened his mouth to argue, clacked his teeth together without making a sound. Jason was yapping at Vic, not him.

"Jason." Lisa burst in without knocking. Vic wanted to say something about that, but decided he shouldn't. He was already on thin ice and everyone looked ready to put him on his ass. His teammates gave both Davis and Ellis free run of their quarters, no matter where they were and apparently, he was the only one who had a problem with that. "Ran the tag on the ambulance, good job Trent." She nodded, flashed him a grin. "It's legit. Randy was able to hack into street cameras, followed it through traffic. It went to a hospital fifteen mikes out. Blackburn has transportation. Ready to go?"

"Let's move."

Vic was the last one out of the room, trailing after the others with no real understanding of why. Both Brock and Clay were capable of handling themselves in any situation they found themselves in, yet Blackburn was going to let Hayes go after them. He just didn't get it.

"You're not all going." Eric stated when Jason arrived with Lisa and his team of six on his heels, met him outside command at the running Humvee with mounted gun. "Not open to discussion Quinn." He added when Sonny objected.

"We're not just gonna leave them there."

"That's exactly what we're gonna do, we need to." Eric said briskly. "Perry, keep everyone in line." He opened the passenger door, stepped up on the running board. "Jason."

"Wait," Metal spoke up, eyed the armed escort. "Why are _you_ going? And with armed guards?"

Yeah, Vic thought, why was the team's _Lieutenant Commander_ going to the hospital to check on two of his men? No, really, why? It was ludicrous enough when he'd thought Blackburn was letting Jason go, but now...whoa.

"...he's just a rookie. We're gonna go get him."

Exasperated, Vic blurted out. "He's not a rookie anymore!"

"Hey, we're still raising him." Sonny shot back. "Until we're done doing that, he's our rookie."

"What the hell sense does that mean?"

"He's gonna lead this team some day and he's gonna do it our way, so until the day Jason steps down and that happens, he's our rookie."

"I'm your rookie!" A round of collective snorts made Vic see red. "What?! Oh, come on!"

Eric, irritated with being questioned, was ready to go. "Randy was able to pull footage from security cameras in the area." He said in his 'don't-fuck-with-me-anymore-tone'. "While there isn't film of the attack on Spenser, the fact they took their dead with them, leads us to believe they don't want us knowing who they are."

"Wait? Their dead? Who's this they?"

"Someone's dead?"

"How do you know someone's dead?"

"Not injured? You sure?"

"How did he become dead?"

"There are images of two men running from the alley where Clay was jumped, carrying a third man."

"And the footage told you what?"

"That maybe Spenser saw someone he shouldn't have."

"So what, you think they'd try and kill him for that?" Vic scoffed. "You believe that?"

"I wanna know who this 'they' are everyone keeps talking about!"

Trent flipped Vic off with a scowl. "Something on the films and footage made them 'believe that', dumb ass." He clenched a fist, stepped back. "Do I gotta deal with this?" He asked Jason who shook his head. "Get outta my face." He told Vic.

"And shut the fuck up." Sonny added.

"Kill him. Or take him." Jason added, Eric nodded. "Mount up."

"Okay, so Trent and Metal found blood, if they took their dead with them, doesn't mean the blood was Clay or Brock's." Vic reasoned. "Was he even dead? How do you know that? If you didn't see footage of the attack on Clay….and wait, how do you even know Clay was attacked? Why doesn't anyone ever tell me anything? It's like, I never know what's going on and everyone else does. Why's that? Hey! What are you doing? You're not going….he's not…is he?" He asked Ray. "He is? Wait, I don't get it."

Trent opened the back-driver's side door, got in. No one, except Vic, said anything. Jason got in beside him, Erick ducked in up front, doors closed and the Humvee, armed with a gunner and two on the running boards, one of the rear bumper, pulled out.

"How come Trent always gets to go?" Sonny complained.

"You wanna be our medic?" Ray tossed back, clapped Sonny on the shoulder. "Then you can go."

"Fuck, no." Sonny shuddered. First aid was one thing. He could start an IV, stitch a wound closed, but dig his fingers into an open wound, search for a bleeding vein? Clamp it closed? Ignore the pain he was causing? He was a lot of things, but sadistic wasn't one of them. Though, Trent would beg to differ over the description labeling him sadistic.

"You're supposed to be on bed rest, right?" Ray questioned.

"What? No! My arm is fine. Didn't lose any blood…."

"None?"

"Barely hurts."

"Come on Rambo, get you some aspirin, find your pillow."

"Jason got to go." Sonny grumbled, fell into step with Ray.

"He's the boss."

"He got his bell rung."

"Eh, he's tougher than you." Ray laughed, ducked Sonny's playful swing. "Come on, see if we can reach Brock."

"You know what the hell's going on?" Vic asked Metal.

"Clay was attacked, Brock killed a dude, ambulance took them away." He walked off after Sonny and Ray.

"Yeah, okay, but how do you know that!?" He noticed he'd been left behind. "HEY!"

()()()

Brock was a highly well-trained Tier One operator on the most elite team the United States Navy had. No one pushed him around. He knew how to get what he wanted, when he wanted it, by whatever means necessary. But Clay Spenser was his teammate and all rhyme and reason ceased to exist.

The ambulance had pulled up, the doors swung open, Brock stepped out of the ambulance, hand firmly on the gurney…and…Clay was gone. Just gone. And he still had no fucking idea how _the hell_ it had happened or where _hell_ he'd been taken.

He'd taken his eyes off the kid for the second time in less than 30 minutes, just to gain his balance as he stood for a split second on one foot while taking a step down from the ambulance, then they were through the doors and he was being pushed and pulled and asked questions from numerous people – he assumed they were questions, no one spoke English – and he hadn't understand _one_ word anyone had been saying and Clay was nowhere in sight.

He'd stood in the middle of the hall, rotating in a slow circle, ignoring everyone around him who had suddenly gone silent and backed away from him, searching for the door Clay had been taken through, but no matter how many times he'd willed it to do so, no door had magically opened to show him the way.

He'd expected Trent would be hot on his heels – after all, it was Clay, Trent's _pet_ project – but the surly medic hadn't made an appearance. No one had.

He'd shaken free of everyone trying to help him, see his hand or ask him questions, declined medical attention, had tried to call Jason, but though his phone had dialed, it failed to make a connection. He'd thought about risking stepping outside to attempt a phone call but armed guards stationed at the doors, arguing with and blocking people from getting in, made it clear that unless you came into the hospital via ambulance, you weren't getting in.

And he'd been afraid that if he left, he wouldn't be allowed to return. So, he'd opted to remain inside with access to Clay rather than outside where he could _possibly_ contact his team. Yes, he had the skills to get out of the hospital and back in but he was tired and thirsty and though he wouldn't admit it, in quite a bit of pain, so he'd decided it just wasn't worth it.

His team would ream him out, blow bloody hell at his head, he went and left Clay, so he'd chosen to ignore his hand and remain within the hospital, no matter how much shit he'd catch for not calling in. Either way, he was gonna hear about it and he bet he'd hear _less_ , if it was over no phone call.

Besides, he'd firmly believed Davis and Blackburn would find out where they'd been taken, would arrive and Blackburn would demand, and be granted entrance. All Brock had to do was wait for his commander to arrive and then throw this whole mess in his lap, let Eric deal with it. It's what he did best. It was his job, not Brock's.

But that hadn't happened either.

No medic, no commander, no team, so Brock had had to pitch a fit.

After a whirlwind of activity that had involved; intimidating hand-waving, forceful foot-stomping arguments, flat-out refusal to have his hand looked at, displays of anger and violent threats that left with him with a splitting headache, he'd finally been directed to the hallway he'd assumed Clay had been taken down.

It was only once he'd been allowed admittance beyond the double doors that had to be buzzed open so he could enter through them that it hit him, the only reason they had agreed to let him go, was because he still had his gun on his hip and proudly wore an American flag patch on his chest.

Didn't matter.

Once the doors had snapped locked behind him, he'd been greeted by calm and quiet. His headache immediately subsided, but his thumb had kicked up. He'd given it a shake, a look of disgust, tucked it back into the sling and cradled it against his upper ribs in a lame attempt to subdue the dull, yet constant, throbbing.

All that had done was draw attention to the fact he was injured and medical staff had swarmed him. Once again, he'd waved everyone away. He'd see to himself once he saw Clay and was sure the kid was okay. But it hadn't worked that way. Dazed and flushed, sore and in pain, his muscles stiffening up from hours of hard, unexpected physical labor, he'd been whisked off to an exam room where he was 'tsked' and 'nuh-nuhed' and scolded about the condition of his hand.

He hadn't wanted to go but found he was unable to resist. He couldn't find Clay and if he continued to ignore his hand – for Christ sake, he was dripping blood on the floor – when he was able to be with the kid, he wouldn't be in any condition to help him.

So, he'd gone.

The doctor who had finally arrived, hadn't been able to get the bleeding to stop either. He'd 'cauterized' the injury with something that had Brock swallowing his teeth and had sent a shiver down Trent's spine, wherever the hell he was. Then he'd swabbed and flushed and coated and stapled and rubbed before wrapping.

He'd spoken some English and had gone on to inform Brock that he'd just finished with Clay; the knife wound, as Brock had deduced, was not life-threatening and had been stitched and bandaged. The hospital only had the ability to take x-rays which had shown no visible damage, whatever the hell that meant, no broken bones and more would be known when Clay woke up and could answer questions.

Wake up? He'd been conscious, if disoriented, in the ambulance until medicated.

Brock had forgotten all about his thumb, stricken with the thought whatever they'd given Clay in the ambulance was causing a reaction. His sole focus had been getting to Clay before he woke up, 'cause if the sniper woke up confused, in pain and alone but remembered Brock had been, should be, with him, all hell would break loose. Clay didn't react or respond well to people he didn't know. And if he were medicated or disoriented, shit went sideways real fast.

Having had no idea what medication – he assumed a sedative – had been administered to Clay, he hadn't been able to sit still and allow the doctor to finish. Good God, what if they had given him something else here at the hospital? Yes, Clay wore dog-tags, but even though they bore the universal medical-alert symbol, Brock couldn't be sure anyone here had even found them, and if they had, had been able to read or understand them any better than the ambulance medics had.

He'd always said, thought, believed, that Clay's medical issues weren't a problem. It'd been over three years and had been handled by Trent, Doc and the entire team - Blackburn included. But….but….BUT!...in those three years, believe it or not, Clay hadn't really been separated from Trent.

Not like this anyway.

Finally, the doctor had given up, told him where to find Clay, and sent him on his way with a bottle of pain meds and another of antibiotics, and here he was; dirty and disheveled, tired and sore, sitting on a tortuous too-small plastic chair that simply wasn't made to sit on for longer than three minutes, watching Clay who was neither unconscious nor awake.

He'd tried again to call Jason but there was no signal. Texts didn't go out. His comm unit was with his helmet and that was God knew where and after having raised such a ruckus to get where he was, he was loath to leave the 'private, authorized personnel only' area, afraid he wouldn't get back in and he'd never see Clay again.

He knew what time it was, but didn't know how much time had passed. So, he sat trying to decide if he should try and wake Clay up, tried to ignore his thumb that now caused his arm to ache clear up to his shoulder, tried to figure out what the hell to do.

He found by angling his elbow towards the floor and his curled fingers towards his chin, the ache subsided enough he could deal with it without wincing and hissing every time he moved, but he still couldn't think clearly. He sighed, shifted his weight uneasily on the chair. Got up to pace. Sat back down. Eyed the bottles of pills, turned away from them.

The room was small, Clay the only patient though it did have two beds. He'd been settled with a blanket, nothing else. No attempt had even been made to clean him up. His upper left arm was bandaged, but Brock – Trent being his medic and all – felt the bandage was inadequate and too tight. He also didn't like the fact Clay's arm from his neck to his hand, was dirty, his fingers puffy.

He scooched the chair closer to the bed, reached out. Clay didn't move, not even a hitch in his breath. Even 'asleep', he knew he wasn't alone. Brock still didn't know how the hell the kid knew that shit.

He sat back. Sometimes, it was hard being Clay's friend, teammate, brother. Brock wouldn't do anything to change that, just every once in a while, he allowed his feelings to surface, even if he didn't share them with anyone except Cerberus. And when he did, the fickle four-legged furball always chose to curl up on Clay's feet, as if to say: don't know what you're taking about dad.

Clay was a handful, a constant work in progress. Oh, they'd come a long way in the last 3 years. Trent and Doc had him all figured out, had gleefully admitted they'd enjoyed the challenge the little shit had presented.

Now, should Clay go to another team, no one currently on Bravo would have to lose sleep at night that he was out there, on his own, in the unknown with no one to protect his back….and face it, Clay would still be kicking doors long after the current men on Bravo had retired from active action.

He'd laugh, if he didn't think he'd cry. This could only happen to him. This whole night was fucked up and all he could think was: Which Clay was he going to get?

Mopey-dopey Clay?  
Cutesy Clay who sang songs to ex-girlfriends?  
Clingy with no memory of it later Clay?  
I-don't-know-who-you-are-so-you-must-die Clay?

If Brock got to choose, he'd select clingy Clay. He was the easiest to handle, was content as long as he had someone to hold on to and Brock had no problems with that. Sonny claimed he did, but he really didn't. None of them did, though it wasn't really discussed.

He blew his breath out, thought by now a nurse would have come in. But no one entered and when he stepped from the room, wandered the hall, he saw no one. He returned to the room, sat down. He was the team member with patience. He could sit and wait forever. He could redo, go over again, repeat until doomsday. He had it, he employed it, he used it. It was what made him the best dog trainer in the U.S. armed services.

But, now? Now, he was out of it.

"Hey." Brock sat forward, shook the mattress. "It's me. Ole buddy Brock. Not gonna give you orders, no one calls me Bravo One." He bunched the pillow under Clay's head, frowned, laid the back of his fingers against a warm cheek. "Ain't gonna try and make you see reason, that's all Ray." He squeezed Clay's hand, rubbed circles on his knuckles with his thumb. "Not gonna tease you, ain't no one ever gonna confuse me with Sonny." He chuckled, sighed. A fever? Really? Like, now? "And ain't gonna bully you into responding, I train dogs, didn't train as a medic." He balanced his elbow on his knees, cupped his chin. "So, it's me, asking you to wake up. 'K?"


	3. Chapter 3

Accustomed and trained, though by no means was that training authorized, to respond to specific voices – one of which was talking to him now – Clay stirred in agitation. He'd ignored voices he was conditioned to respond to in the past, and it had never ended well for him.

"That's it," he heard Brock saying. "Wake up." As his eyelid was thumbed opened – an action he didn't like, he scowled, tried to pull away – he tried to think of a single instance where Brock had ever given him orders. Brock always suggested or asked, he never ordered anyone. "Hey, need you with me." His cheek was slapped. "Come on…hey." His chin was cupped, his head given a slight shake. "Spense? Yo!"

Clay blinked at the tone, blue eyes slowly coming into focus as he squinted against the dim light. He let them close, too tired and too sore to bother keeping them open. Despite the authoritative tone, he'd confirmed without a doubt it was indeed Brock hovering above him and he didn't need to know anymore.

"Not yet." Brock said softly. His normal voice, Clay thought irritably as kicked his feet against the blanket, tried to sit up, was held back by a hand on his shoulder. "You're good. Just need you to wake up."

"I'mma 'wake." He mumbled, went limp against the mattress. "…air..we at?"

"The hospital." Relieved, but uncertain, Brock sat back, dragged a dirty hand down his dirty face. Clay's hand found his knee, his fingers curled into the fabric next to the knee-pad, held tight. "You're good, banged up a bit.

"Are...you?"

Oh boy. Mopey-dopey and clingy.

It'd been a couple of hours – maybe, hadn't it? – since Clay had been drugged. Brock was able to wake him up, and his eyes, though bloodshot, focused and Clay knew who he was, was able and willing to respond to him. All good signs - great signs. Woot!

"Don't worry about me."

"Uh." Clay tried to bring up his injured arm to push his bangs of his forehead, stopped with a wince, raised his head to glare at the arm that had dared to disobey. "The…fuc….my arm...ow."

"Yeah, you were stabbed."

"Was I?" He licked his lips, looked around. "I was." He let his eyes close, frowned. "Oh." Brock didn't look right to him.

"Just a flesh wound, few stitches. Will feel better next time you wake up. Bet Sonny's is worse, got more stitches."

"Oh…'kay….just….ow." He hunched a shoulder, itched his chin against the rough fabric. "Time to….go? We gotta…move?"

"Can you?" Brock didn't think so. Oh, he could carry Clay out. Thought about it, discarded the idea. He'd have to find transportation or hope he could reach someone, and then wait for them to come get them. He didn't know what other injuries Clay might have suffered. The doctor hadn't spoken very clear English and no one else spoke it at all, so he made the decision to remain where they were until Jason came to get them. Trent would be with him, let the medic make the decision whether or not to take Clay and leave.

"Uh….yuh-nuh."

"Do you remember what happened?" Brock watched as Clay tried to think. His brow furrowed, his nose twitched, his lips thinned, but Brock knew the blonde failed to recall the elusive memories. "It's ok, it can wait." He still didn't know why Clay had been jumped the second his back was turned and Blackburn was going to want to know.

"….Vic….left." Clay said finally. He really wanted to scratch his face, rub his eyes, move his hair, but his left arm simply would not obey his commands to move and in his confused, befuddled state, he thought his right hand was tied down. "Uh….both arms?"

Brock blew his breath out, chuckled tiredly. Right, sure. That would be how Clay saw it. He hadn't cared when Ray had left to check on Jason and Sonny, but when Vic had said he was going with him, Clay had had a few cutting remarks to share.

"Yeah, Lopez bailed." He paused. "No, just your left. You can move your right hand, you want to." He waited as Clay twitched his fingers on first one hand, then the other but he didn't let go of Brock. "What I thought." He said with a satisfied smile. It tickled him, the trust Clay had in him.

"….tied?" Clay asked, voice slurred. He was fighting falling back asleep. "…my…hand…?"

"What?" Brock blinked, thrown a bit. "No….oh." He patted Clay's hand. "Feel that? You're good. Just….aah, drugs, okay?" He jounced his knee, thinking maybe the movement would be enough for Clay to let go. It wasn't. "You're not restrained."

"Kay." Clay blinked, roused enough to look around the room.

"What?"

"Dunno….ache…I guess." He took a breath, then rolled to his hip, came up on his elbow. "Everyone...good?"

"Yeah, Sonny's good, Jason can hear...what are you….hey no…lay down."

"I…kin….walk."

"You don't have to." Brock said patiently. "Jason will come get us, we're just waiting 'til he does" He forcefully pushed Clay down onto the mattress. The little shit resisted and even when his shoulder hit the mattress, didn't relax. "You're not going anywhere."

Clay didn't think so, tried again to get up. "But you..." He swallowed, suddenly dizzy. "...sling...you.."

"Stay!"

"It's hot." He dragged his face against the pillow, slowly eased off his hip onto his back. "I'm…hot…why's't hot?"

"Gimme a minute." Brock moved the chair so he could rest his feet, ankles crossed, on the mattress near Clay's hip without dislodging Clay's hand, pulled the two bottles of pills the doctor had given him from a pocket, his cell phone from another. "It'll cool off soon, just hang tight."

He still had over half a battery, thumbed open the folder where he kept downloaded files. He didn't have a signal, couldn't access the internet via his data, but he and every member of Bravo, kept a list of medications each one of them could and couldn't take and no internet was needed to access it. And bless Doc, there was a twenty-something-syllable-medical-word-to-a-Bravo-understood-word, translation.

Though not in foreign languages and Brock said a quick prayer that the labels were printed in both the local language and English.

The bottles of pills the doctor had given him were amoxicillin-something and Tylenol with codeine. Both mild but beneficial and both approved for consumption by Bravo's pain in the ass, Mr. Clay Spenser.

There were 4 pills of the antibiotic, 4 of the pain med. He decided Clay would benefit more from the antibiotic then he would, unlike the kid, he wasn't running a fever.

The telltale signs were all present: flushed cheeks, warm to touch, skin around his eyelashes dry and red, excessive sweating, shaking with chills, rapid pulse. He wondered why, attributed it to the knife wound. God, please don't let him relapse with the flu – though, his weakened state from having it just weeks ago probably didn't help.

There was no pitcher for water on the table, no cups either, so he went in search of both. He encountered no one on his search, found an unopened mini bottle of store-bought water on an unoccupied counter, returned to Clay's room.

He'd been quick, expecting chaos to break out while he'd left Clay unattended, but though the kid was sitting up in the middle of the bed, feet still tucked under the blanket, looking lost and bewildered when Brock returned, he hadn't yet tried to get up.

"Whoa, you're not going anywhere." He coaxed Clay into taking two of the antibiotics, set the bottle aside. He'd quenched his thirst at a water-fountain in the hallway, would need the rest to give Clay the remaining two pills in two hours, they didn't kick in, help his fever. Course, by then, he hoped his team would've shown up. "Lie down."

The kid sat for a moment, blinked, looked around the room, finally just felt sideways. He didn't seem to be in a lot of pain, didn't complain his arm hurt, so Brock decided against giving him the pain meds. It simply wasn't worth the risk to mix more medication when he didn't know what, if anything more, Clay had been given. And he'd lain down, squirmed his way mostly to his back, was by all appearances, asleep, so Brock was content with waiting. He took two of the pain meds, saved the other two in case the kid needed them.

He eyed the empty bed. It lacked sheets, no blanket but he didn't need either. Thing was, unless Clay rolled his head left, should he open his eyes, he wouldn't see Brock where he'd expect to see him and Brock had been through the shit-show that would follow if that happened too many times before to allow it to happen again.

He tried several times to turn Clay's head left, but every time he let go of the kid's chin, he resumed his prior position…head positioned just so that if he opened his eyes, Brock would be in his line of sight - where he last saw him.

Oh, how well Brock knew this routine.

Okay then, fine. Clay's comfort over his own. He sighed, blew his breath out. No, that wasn't the truth. Not really. It was the safety of everyone Clay might encounter should he, in pain, disoriented and medicated, go in search of Brock and not be able to find him – and if he got out of Brock's sight, Sonny would hang Brock on a coat-hook.

Wouldn't matter Brock would be in a bed right next to him. Brock's luck, Clay wouldn't see him and he wouldn't hear the kid get up and go looking for him, and he'd hear it from everyone - Davis and Ellis included, probably have to run hills in full gear on the hottest day of the year.

Resigned to staying right where he was, he shifted his weight uneasily. He had stiffened up, muscles tight from the unusual activity he'd subjected them to. He desperately wanted a hot bath, decent meal, his bed and his teammate cracking jokes around him while he fell asleep.

Instead, he settled for the piece-of-shit chair, tried to ignore his hunger, his thirst, his hand and accept that the chair wasn't the worst place he'd tried to get some sleep.

But that plan too, didn't go his way...because, Clay.

Clay apparently didn't like being dirty. Or sweaty. Or his hair. Or the bandage on his arm. Or the bed. He was restless and uneasy, fussed with his wet bangs, plucked on the ends of the bandage, thrashed against the blanket, wrestled with the mattress.

He huffed, puffed, moaned, wiped his face so many times with the blanket, it became wet and soiled and still, his face and hands remained dirty and wet.

Groggy and sleepy-eyed, denying his body the sleep it demanded, Brock ignored his hand, looked for a call bell, didn't see one. Poked his head on the door numerous times in an attempt to locate a nurse or any hospital worker - failed. Spent the rest of the night, morning, day, whatever – or maybe it was merely half an hour, he didn't fucking know – trying to soothe Clay and help him settle down.

Getting off boots, socks and pants was a task made harder when he-who-was-doing-the-removing had one functioning hand and the little prick being 'de-panted', refused to lie still.

Getting frustrated would only make Clay more irritated, so Brock simply talked quietly, patted a hand or knee every so often, kept his movements slow, explained what he was doing, even though it wore him out.

"Okay, that better? Huh?" He shook the blanket out, turned it around so the wet, dirty section was now at the foot of the bed. "Water?" He offered the bottle but Clay scowled, turned away. "Okay." There were paper towels in a dispenser next to the sink, more underneath in the cupboard that he used to bathe Clay's forehead and cheeks, neck and chest removing as much grime, dust, dirt and sweat as he could without soap. He left a soaking wet wad of towels over the kid's battered, abused eyes, patted the red, puffy skin with cool water on his arm all around the bandage. Thought about removing it entirely, decided against it.

Clay wasn't holding his stomach, his breath or swallowing repeatedly, all signs he was trying not to vomit, and Brock thanked the good lord he wasn't going to have to deal with that.

Exhausted, he sat down in the chair, let his feet rest on the mattress, rubbed the back of his neck. He must have dozed off for a bit, because next thing he knew, Clay was muttering some shit about 'leaving where they were' and trying to climb over Brock's legs to get out of ed.

Great.

He lowered his feet to the floor, sat up. There was a puddle of his own blood on the floor. Awesome, his thumb was bleeding again, or still - hell, he didn't know. Just awesome.

Shit.

He was exhausted, in pain, somewhat worried because his thumb would not stop bleeding and he simply couldn't think straight. By now, he should have found some way to call in, but doing so hadn't crossed his mind since he'd first arrived and now all he was focused on was not freaking out over the fact Clay was still giving him fits.

Somewhere on this fucking floor, had to be someone who could produce some Tylenol and Brock, Clay for the moment sleeping quietly, was determined to find them and make them understand what he wanted.

()()()

Eric Blackburn was a man used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. He was not a man used to being denied anything he wanted, let alone a request as simple as being granted access to a hospital.

He didn't want to provoke a fight that could possibly lead to an international incident but he'd decided no backwards hospital security staff was going to prevent him from gaining entry and finding his men. No one was going to stop him from getting through those doors and if he had to call in the rest of Bravo and take it by force, he'd be just as willing as the team to kick in doors, wielding a fully automatic weapon capable of taking out anyone who got in his way.

Just...he would try to take the proper steps first. What sucked was, it was taking a while.

And Master Chief Bravo One, wasn't happy about that, chafed at the restrictions caused by red tape. He tested his boundaries, pushed against Eric's refusal to allow him to call in the rest of his team and use force to get inside but he toed the line when he was shut down, resorted to pacing while Eric made phone calls and waited for them to be returned.

"One hour Blackburn." Jason tossed out. "You don't get us entry, we're taking the door."

Eric waved him off. He didn't know how much time had passed – enough that Ray had arrived with Sonny, Metal and Vic. He'd grant Jason that one act of defiance without reprimand because he was actually grateful for the extra support – but finally, he got the confirmation he'd been after and when they again approached the armed forces guarding the ER doors, they were grudgingly allowed to enter.

One of the soldiers from the base who had come with them, spoke the language – the reason Eric had selected him to accompany him – and interpreted Eric's increasing demands and borderline threats, to be told where his men were.

"This is getting us nowhere." Sonny fussed.

"Why are you even here?" Trent sighed. "You were told to go to bed and stay there."

"Nothing wrong with me."

"This building isn't that big. Some hallway or another, we'll find them."

"Big enough. It's a hospital, halls and corridors we'll never find. We don't even know if they're still here."

"Brock wudda called."

"Yeah, we thought he wudda."

"Less he can't."

"There's seven floors." Jason took charge. "Ray, take Vic, start on the top floor, clear it, work your way down. Sonny, Metal, find the morgue, work your way up. Trent with me."

"Dunno know why you can't go to the morgue." Sonny grumbled.

"Cause I'm the boss." Jason returned. "He knows his way around these places. We're gonna find x-ray, start from there."

"Yeah, but...skeevy dead bodies don't give him the willies." Sonny shuddered. "Lead the way Metal."

Two of the men from the base had remained with the Humvee. Eric kept the one who spoke the language with him, tried to get answers from staff members. The remaining two men from the base were told to wander, see what they could find.

Maybe ten minutes had gone by when an alarm went off. Then sirens. Then strobe lights.

Loud. Annoying. Repetitive.

Employees ran, doors slammed, windows closed, cupboards and cabinets were locked. The soldier with Eric translated there was a disturbance on the third floor, west hall. All elevators to that floor were shut off. Stairwell doors were locked. No one was getting on or off that floor.

"Wanna bet?" Sonny responded.

"Lemme guess," Trent joked over comms. "You brought an ax."

"You do know me, right?"

"Meet at the stairwell." Jason commanded.

"Wait...why the third floor?" Vic watched as Ray took off at a jog. "Hey, wait for me...you're seriously going to break down a door to get on the third floor? What's so special about the third floor? I don't get it."

"Smack him for me, will ya Ray?"

"Cause, you ass, if there's a disturbance in this hospital, it's gonna be where we find Clay."

"Ya damn dummy."

"He's Tier One? Really?"

()()()

Brock didn't locate another living soul. He swore he and Clay were the only two people on this floor. Every room he passed, was empty. The twin beds lacking pillows, sheets, blankets. Odd.

He found packets of Tylenol, thank God it was a brand name and used everywhere, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to identify what it was, on the same desk he'd found the bottle of water. A nearby door opened into a room where he found a fridge with mini cans of ginger-ale and a single use coffee maker.

Yeah, he took the 30 seconds to make himself a cup, added sugar, secured a plastic lid. pocketed two cans of soda. It was awkward with only one hand, but he made do. Time to take the last two pain pills, his hand was really starting to kick up.

Sipping the warm enough, but not as hot as he liked it, coffee, he returned to Clay's room…came up short at the sight that greeted him.

The cardboard cup of coffee fell from limp fingers, hit the floor, lip popping off, splashing everywhere. With a roar, he charged forward at a run, vaulted through the doorway, body-tackled the man smothering Clay with a pillow. His weight, the speed and force at which he landed on the guy, took them both over the bed, where they crashed to the floor amid clangs and clatters.

The bed was jarred, an alarm went off, a siren blared. Lights flashed, a whistle wailed. An automated voice came over loudspeakers.

Thirty seconds ago, Brock hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone. Now? Now the halls were flooded with people all running and shouting - they just continued to pour out of doors and hallways.

Security came.  
Armed police came.  
Brock was separated from the man he'd tackled.  
The man was soon in cuffs.  
Brock was let go.  
Questions flew at him, he couldn't answer any, didn't understand a word.  
And Clay just slept as if ear-splitting sirens weren't going off.  
Or strobe lights.  
Until a doctor tried to examine him.  
Then, THEN, his eyes opened with a scowl. He muttered something along the lines of; 'the hell's goin on?', 'stop touching me', saw Brock, went back to sleep.

"He's good." Brock righted the over-turned chair, sat down. "Just, get out."

And, believe it or not, everyone did. Because, unbeknownst to Brock, everyone disappeared because Bravo, having met up with Sonny who hacked through both the locked door to get them into the stairwell, and through the door that got them out, came charging out of the third-floor stairwell with a display of force.

And though Bravo were not kitted up, didn't carry rifles, the three soldiers from base, were and did. They hung back with Jason and Blackburn in the hall to learn what had happened and to make the argument Bravo deserved custody of the hand-cuffed man who'd tried to kill one of their own.

"Hey, there, curly-cue, wake up!" Sonny slapped Brock upside the back of his head with an open-hand. It wasn't a hard slap, but Brock tumbled from the chair and landed in a heap on the floor.

"Now, lookit what you did." Metal complained. Kneeling beside Brock, he missed Clay launch from the bed and in one, smooth, coordinated move, tackle Sonny who slipped in the smeared blood on the floor, lost his balance and was knocked backwards through the door.

They both hit the floor with a thud and clatter, Clay landing on top of Sonny.

"The hell!" Metal muttered, left Brock who was getting to his feet, to drag Clay off Sonny who had opted to shield his face from solid fists, rather than try and free himself from Clay.

"Lopez?" Jason waved a hand in the direction of the rolling duo on the floor. "Get on that!"

"Ooof!" Sonny bucked at the fist to his belly, realized a bit too late, Clay wasn't playing. The little shit was in full fight mode. And he was stronger than Sonny remembered him being. He and the kid had wrestled more than once, but yeah, whole different kind of fight. Clay flipped to his back, pinning Sonny's legs with his own – some kind of wrestling hold, Sonny bet – with one arm around Sonny's throat, the other palm shoving Sonny's nostrils towards the ceiling. He was applying pressure, cutting off Sonny's supply of oxygen and Sonny felt his vision grey. "Met…ill." He choked, tried to pry Clay's arm loose. "Lit'le...'elp...'ere."

"Maybe next time, don't knock Brock to the floor." Metal reached for the bandage on Clay's arm. He didn't want to hurt the kid, but neither did he want Sonny to pass out and it was the easiest way to end the situation. "Can you roll over?"

Could he do what? The hell was wrong with Metal? Sonny had a few more pounds of muscle than the kid did, but that didn't mean he'd win this fight. "Get'im...off!" He hadn't reacted right away, thinking Clay was just playing and the delay had been enough to give Clay the advantage.

"Come here, you little dick." Grabbing Clay's injured arm didn't solicit the reaction Metal was looking for. "Sonofabitch!" He ducked late, caught a foot to his hip. He recovered, caught the ankle before Clay could land a second kick. "Little fucker is strong." Panting, he scrambled for purchase anywhere on Clay. With Sonny on his back on top of Clay's chest, the blonde had a hold Metal couldn't break. He attempted to use the foot he held as leverage to roll both Sonny and Clay over, but even with only one leg pinning Sonny's to him, Clay had the advantage.

"The hell's going on?" Eric demanded as Vic moved to help Metal drag Clay off Sonny. "Quinn!"

Sonny grunted, unable to even eek out an affronted 'ME'!

"You trying to get us thrown out of here?" Ray held a hand out to Brock. "Couldn't keep your mouth shut, eh Sonny?"

Finally free of Clay's crushing hold, Sonny sat up, rubbed his throat. " Shit, man! The hell you doin' Clay?"

Clay simply glared, hands fisted, but Metal bear-hugged him from behind, swung him off his feet, set him back in the room.

"You good Spenser? We cool?" Metal let him go and he sat down on the bed, held a hand over the bandage on his arm. "Sorry about that. Quinn here don't look good with a purple face, you know."

"Thought..." Clay shook his head, eyes on the bloody floor. "Brock was...just...dunno."

"Lemme in." Trent pushed through the door. "The hell Brock."

"Uh." He rubbed his eyes, picked up the over-turned chair again. "Sonny's way of a greeting, I guess." He went to sit down, was stopped by Ray. "What?"

"What'd you do Son? Knock him outta his chair?"

"Didn't think he'd fall over." Sonny blew it off.

"Guess he thought you were the dude Brock was just fighting." Metal explained.

"Can we get outta here?" Vic asked Eric but it was Trent who answered and no one, not even the Lt. Commander, argued.

"Not until I know what's going on." Trent hadn't missed the smeared blood on the floor. The sling around Brock's neck which supported a heavily wrapped thumb. Clay's vacant expression, murky eyes. His confusion over who Sonny was.

"Hospital is on lock-down." Eric replied, phone to his ear. "Someone tried to snuff out Spenser, Brock? That what happened?"

"We got in, we can get out," Vic muttered. But that, much to his chagrin, was that. They weren't going anywhere. "Wait? What? Snuff who?"

"Outside." Jason ordered Brock who wearily squared his shoulders, obeyed the command, stepped out into the hallway. Eric and Ray followed, Sonny lingered in the doorway.

"Wouldn't wanna be him." Vic commented, made to follow them but Metal brought him up short. "What? Lemme pass. I wanna know what happened too."

"None of your business." Metal shook his head. "Help Trent."

Trent swung a backpack off his shoulder, motioned to Vic to swing Clay's feet up on the bed, make him lay down.

Vic complied, Clay didn't.

Trent knew how to handle Clay, Vic didn't. A smart tap atop his head and a none-too-gentle tug on his ear and Clay was flat on his back, no longer resisted.

He checked Clay over, made sure there were no serious injuries. He asked simple questions, demanded and received answers as he palpated and pressed and poked.

"Deep breath. Hold it. Again."

"Nothing wrong with his breathing." Vic said impatiently.

"He was smothered with a pillow." Metal, for the 100th time, wondered how in the hell it had become his job to mentor Lopez.

"When? How do you know that? So, snuffed?"

Metal rubbed the back of his neck. This was his punishment, he supposed. The incident over which his leadership had been called into question, had been investigated and settled by all authorities. He'd been cleared of any wrong-doing and given back his rightful position as leader of the team. Only…mentally, maybe, he wasn't quite so ready.

Jason had offered him a position on Bravo, while he sorted out his shit and problems. He'd accepted the offer, not really understanding why Jason needed, uh, help. Well, now he knew. Lopez – ugh. And Spenser, oh boy.

Clay had not taken to Lopez. Awake, he was out-right rude and hostile. Medicated, he was violent. On the job, there were no issues but Metal thought maybe sometimes, Jason had recruited him to be a peacemaker – babysitting Clay Spenser was a full-time job.

"Blackburn has a translator." He explained. "Remember? The gunner can speak the language?"

"Yeah, but no one said anything about….."

"Not in English. Do you ever shut up?"

Vic glared, but went silent. How was he supposed to know everything Bravo did? They'd been together forever, could connect the dots, fill in blanks, understand one another with looks and head movements and hand signals. He simply hadn't realized Blackburn had figured out what had happened so soon.

"He good?" Metal asked as Trent pulled a pair of scissors, cut the bandage from Clay's arm. Within seconds, he had an antiseptic wipe and different scissors in his hands, snipped the stitches, pulled the threads out. "Didn't make it worse, did I?"

"Nope. If he was smothered, he didn't lose consciousness."

How the hell Trent knew that simply by making Clay breathe was beyond Vic, but when Bravo's 'newbie' opened his mouth to ask, Metal shut it for him.

Vic grunted when his teeth clacked together from Metal's lackadaisical but effective backhanded slap.

Clay's eyes flickered from one teammate to another, blinked a time or two, didn't flinch. Not until Trent cleansed the gash in his arm to his own standards, generously applied iodine, then poked and prodded with a scalpel and tweezers; then he ow'd and ooh'd while squirming and jerking away.

"I know." Trent said in the most comforting tone anyone had ever heard him use and had Metal blinking in surprise. "Doesn't feel too good, but dude, you know what I think of medical care over here, so gonna hafta deal with me."

He shushed Clay when the blonde growled; put him down when he tried to sit up; placed a knee on his thigh when he tried to slide his legs off the bed.

"Not gonna win this one kid." Trent said, some sort of strips in his teeth.

"Someone's got some ants in his pants." Metal chuckled, grabbed an ankle when Clay attempted to slide off the other side of the bed. "No you don't."

"He's looking for Brock." Trent spat the package aside, dug one-handed in his bag. Steri-strips were not going to work this time. "Three of them with stitches, all left arm."

"Wait…you're not gonna just, like, uh staple him, are you?" Vic paled slightly. He'd yet to be subjected to any care from Trent, hadn't really witnessed any. "I mean, like, he's in a hospital, he's seen a doctor. A doctor stitched him up."

"Your point?"

"Just…Trent isn't a doctor. I mean, yeah, he's a medic, a good one, everyone says, but Clay's seen a doctor."

"Shut up."

"He didn't hafta take those stitches out. Why'd you do that Trent? Aren't you gonna give him something, before you attack him with staples?"

"Get him outta here." Trent told Sonny. Clay wasn't resisting Metal's hold and even though Clay was more content with Sonny than Metal, Trent didn't see it being an issue. "Met?"

"Yeah, yeah, got 'im." He dragged Clay back into the middle of the bed, held both ankles to the mattress with two ham-sized fists, that though capable of a executing a brutal hold, wasn't.

"His cut worse than mine?" Sonny joked. "Can't let no one upstage him."

"Got that backwards, dumb ass." Metal refused to subdue the kid with the methods Trent employed. Mainly because he highly suspected Clay tolerated it and allowed him to because he was the medic. Should he try it, he believed Clay would come at him with everything he had and though he topped the blonde by several inches, the 'little shit' had just proven how quick and strong he was.

"How's that? I got my arm hurt first. He just can't let no one have Trent's attention."

"Go away." Trent held Clay's wrist, applied slight pressure, waited for him to be still. "Just wanna see your arm."

"Brock?" Clay licked his lips, saw Metal. "Hey."

"He's with Jason."

"No…his thumb…." He came up on his good elbow to take the bottle of water Metal held out. "...in a sling…"

"He's good." Trent cut him off. Three teammates with injuries and stitches to hands and arms – none of which were the result of active duty – made him testy.

"He's not." Clay insisted, jumped at the first staple. "OW!"

"You're the one in a hospital bed running a fever." Trent ruthlessly finished stapling Clay's bruised, abused skin together, tossed wipes and ointment at Metal. "Cleanse it, paint it, wrap it." He tousled Clay's dirty, sweaty hair. "Don't give him a hard time."

"Where you going? I don't…..hey! He doesn't like me!" He yelled after Trent. "Prick."

Clay was looking at him, smirked, broke into song. "I think I love you! So what'm I gonna do now."

Really? The Partridge Family?

Metal didn't know what was worse: that he knew the song and corrected the words Clay was singing wrong, or that Clay was singing to him.

He didn't have to shush him. The kid was sluggish, pretty much sang himself to sleep while he finished up the job Trent had started. Which led him to wonder...why Trent had just up and left?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like it took 90 days for the month of May to pass…and now it is July. Where did June go? Anyone?  
> Anyway, wrapping this one up….not exactly what was asked for/suggested, but I don't see anyone complaining….Onward to season Four! Woot!

"So, you good?" Metal asked awkwardly. He was not accustomed to being any kind of care giver whatsoever. Though he never verbally said a word, he often had a running commentary going on in his head over how easily Bravo just hugged and held, patted and petted – well, mostly Clay – but one another as well. In all his years in the Navy, he'd never seen anything like it.

"Naahaaww."

The hell? He thought Clay was asleep because he'd stopped singing and wasn't giving Metal any resistance while he bumbled his way through using Pampers Sensitive diaper-wipes to clean the blood and dirt from the little shit's arm.

Why diaper-wipes, he was going to be sure to ask later. They weren't anti-bacterial and weren't standard issue military supplies, but they were thick and held up while he rubbed and scrubbed as much dirt off and away from the stables as he could.

He was beginning to understand why Bravo's medic had such issues with medical care over here. Clay had been stabbed. Yeah, it was mainly superficial, not life-threatening, but before the doctor stitched him up, the wound should have been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected.

"Ow." Clay said simply. Metal waited, but when he didn't say anything more, just tensed, bit his lip, Metal finished, tossed aside the third wipe. "Ya gotta...be...so rough?"

"Almost done." Metal picked up a brown bottle of what he assumed was a topical antiseptic. It boasted a bright red warning label that stated in bold, capital, hand-written letters: DO NOT INGEST, INHALE, LICK OR SNIFF. "Well, alrighty then."

"The hell is that shit." Vic was reading over his shoulder. "Might wanna use gloves."

"Thought Trent threw you outta here." He unscrewed the lid that came off with an attached eye-dropper like applicator with a tiny brush. "Huh." He hadn't seen mercurochrome since he'd been a wee one knee-high to a grasshopper. If he remembered correctly, it stung like a mother'fr and he thought, had been banned due to its mercury content. Eh, Trent would never do anything to make any of them sick, so….dab, dab, dab, spread, paint, dip and dab some more until the entire line of staples were painted pinkish-red.

Oh yeah, it still stung. Clay hissed, jerked a time or two, thumped his heels, tears welled. Now that, Metal mused with a smirk, was over-reacting just a bit. The big boob.

"Don't be a cry-baby." He teased as Clay wiped the back of his other hand across his eyes, sniffed, glared. Oh yeah, that look promised retribution for that remark. Go ahead, come at me blondie.

"Wow, that's pink. Or is it red? What is that, you think?"

"Shut up." Huh, this wasn't the color he remembered as a kid. Or maybe that had been iodine. Though knowing Trent, this was probably some concoction of his own.

"Sor….sorry." Clay tried to raise his sore arm to push at his hair but Metal held it to the mattress by his wrist. He fluttered his eyes open, let them close. He shifted his weight uneasily, wiped his face on the sheet, smacked his lips...water would be good.

"Not you." Metal shushed him, paid him little attention, set on taping a bandage over the stitches. Wouldn't do for any redness or swelling to be seen by Trent. Oh no. No, indeed. Nope, the surly medic wouldn't have any reason to find fault with Metal's first-aid job.

"I don't….feel…so…good."

"Uh…yeah." Metal pushed a hand through his hair. "Trent…he, uh didn't leave…so…uh, yeah…that…you'll feel better, um….soon." He lifted Clay's arm into the air, placed his palm on his own shoulder so he could wrap an ace bandage around it. "That too tight? No? Feel okay?" He pinned it off, let Clay's arm plop onto his stomach, beamed proudly over a job well done. "All good?"

"But…I…."

"You're good Clay." Metal snapped, brief moment of satisfaction over offering comfort gone. "You're in a hospital, now go to sleep." He pulled the chair around to the foot of the bed so he faced the door. No one was getting in….he cast a baleful glance at Clay…..or out, on his watch.

But Clay remained uneasy. He ached, his arm hurt, and despite how hard he wished it, his fuzzy brain, just would not make order of whatever was going on.

"I'm…hot…" Clay slurred after a mere two seconds of silence.

"What do you want me to do about it?" Metal asked distractedly, attention on his team out in the hallway, rather than on Clay like it should have been. "Go to sleep, you little shit."

"But….it's…hot."

"Uh-huh." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees to see out the door better, a bit deflated he hadn't made Clay feel better with the offer of kind words. What the hell was going on out there? He couldn't see. He wanted to go out, but though no one had ordered him to stay with Clay, he felt he should.

"Yo! Whoa there! Metal! The hell you doing?" Sonny swept in. "Move Lopez. Dude! Don't never turn your back on him."

Metal blinked, sat up, turned to look over his shoulder. Clay was out of bed, just standing there, looking, contemplating, deciding.

"What's he doing?" Metal asked nervously, stood up, backed away. "The hell's he looking at me like that for?"

"Trying to decide if he knows you?" Sonny joked. "Clay, hey buddy, what ya doin' up?"

"I'm hot." Clay blinked. "It's hot….I'mmmm….." His left arm didn't want to cooperate with his command to rise and when he tried to look to see why, he swayed, his balance lost. "Hottttt. Told….'im….hot."

"Like, how long does this last?" Vic asked. "Reactions to meds? Been awhile, hasn't it? Shouldn't he have slept it off by now?"

"He looks like he's about to bash my fucking brains in." Metal growled. "I will put his ass in traction, he tries."

"Pfft, like to see you try." Sonny easily took hold of Clay's arm, turned him around, patted the bed. "Back to bed you, in you go." He maneuvered Clay where he wanted him to go, not where Clay wanted to go. "Trent hasn't said you can get up yet."

"I feel….awful."

"I know you do. Lie down."

"I'm...hot."

"Uh-huh. Working on it."

Metal blinked, worked his jaw a time or two. Say what now? Sonny Quinn? This was Sonny Quinn? Bravo Three? It was, wasn't it? Was he seeing – hearing – what he was seeing? Hearing?

Really? Seriously? Wow!

"Water?" Clay looked around, resisted being led back to bed. "I'm hot."

"Yeah, I got something for that, but you gotta get back in bed." He waggled a thermometer. "Lemme see how hot you are, then some cold water, eh? How's that sound?"

Vic wondered where it had come from, decided that it must have come from the never-ending, bottomless med bag that was carried everywhere and sat right there. Everyone seemed to know what was in it, and what pocket to find what they were looking for.

Except him. No one ever told or showed him anything.

"Rather…." Clay swallowed, coughed weakly. "….you…just turn…off…the heat."

"Sure, I can do that."

"Wet." Clay made a face, sat down on the mattress, obediently raised his head so Sonny could roll the thermometer across his forehead. "Why's't so hot?"

"They have those ones now you just point and it reads." Vic commented.

"Not convinced of their accuracy."

"And he's in a hospital. Get a nurse or someone."

"Okay, Tylenol dude." Sonny held a bottle of water. "Take these Clay….Clay…hey…no, you don't. Open your mouth." Clay stubbornly refused. "Open….don't you bit me. I already owe you a beat down. Here now, take these, it will make you cooler." Clay opened his mouth, swallowed the pills, drank some water, laid down.

"How high?" Metal couldn't help but ask. He didn't really care or want to know, but seeing _Sonny Quinn_ take someone's temperature was just…..too damn much. He was shown the digital display - 102.4. Huh.

"Now, stay there." Sonny ordered. "Metal will be right here, you need anything."

Metal growled, resumed his seat in the chair from hell. Why didn't Quinn, who obviously had a way with the kid, stay and babysit?

"Lopez." Sonny grabbed him by the collar, shoved him out the door.

"I'll stay here with Metal….."

"Kid doesn't like you. Move."

***000***

"The hell Reynolds." Eric paced, waved a hand in direction of the room where Trent remained with Metal and Clay. "You bully everyone around, force your way in here? The hell were you doing?"

He'd succeeded in obtaining custody of the man who had tried to kill Clay, had him under guard by two of the soldiers just at the end of the hall, well within his sight. The one who spoke the language remained with him. Eric just might have need of him before they managed to get the hell out of here. Spenser spoke the language well enough, but Eric couldn't rely on him when he was singing the fucking Partridge Family to a stunned Metal.

"What?" Brock pulled his wandering attention in. It was harder than it should be and he felt it slip immediately when his thumb twanged; a reminder it hadn't liked the leap, tackle, landing, wrestling and grappling with a force that had fought back. "What'd I do?"

"You pulled your gun to get your way? To get in here? Waved it around? In people's faces? You threatened them?!"

He blinked, pulled his gaping jaw that had dropped open in surprise, closed. "Who? Me?! _What_? I…wha….when? I did no such thing." And just like that, his hand was forgotten. "The hell are you talking about?"

"Any idea the shit show you've caused?"

"I cau….." He hissed when Jason tugged on the sling, stepped back to get away, but his boss stepped with him. "I didn't force…I did what?" He pushed at Jason's hand. "Don't."

"What's this?" Jason asked. "Your hand's swollen."

"Yeah, I'm good, doctor said…"

Brock had removed his arm from the sling while making the coffee even though his left hand hadn't been much use. He was _pretty_ sure it'd been out of the sling when he dove over the bed and crashed to the floor, but he didn't _really_ know for sure. He'd put it back in the sling sometime or another, because for whatever reason, his hand felt better when it was against his side and not dangling.

"You saw a doctor? Why'd you do that?" Sonny pounced. "When? Where was Clay?"

Brock blinked, where the hell had Sonny come from? And Vic too? Christ! How had this become about Clay and turn into an accusation that he'd done something wrong so damn fast? What Sonny was really saying was: why did you leave Clay alone. Not, why did you see a doctor.

"Not like you to do something like that." Ray said quizzically. It was odd, Brock would let Clay out of his sight and seek the services of a doctor in a country where he knew Trent loathed _any and all_ kinds or forms of medical care available. What Bravo's medic said, pretty much went, far as everyone was concerned. Ray sighed, he knew that was going to be an issue with Vic, much like it had been with Nate, saw it coming, but this time, they weren't going to let it become a problem. Not that Jason had seen it as such, but…..

"I was looking for….."

"You were look…? Wait…looking for what? Clay? How's that? You came in with him, why were you looking for him?"

"Sonny," Ray warned. After Nate had been killed and Bravo had selected the 'blonde sniper' - also known as; kid, rookie, little shit, pain in the ass - from the draft, he and Jason had feared Clay would revolt, take exception to Trent's brusque manner and man-handling ways, but much to their surprise, it hadn't been a problem. The kid had been like; eh, whatever. It's cool. Medics, eh. "Go on." He told Brock.

"It was….OW!" Tears welled when Jason tried to wiggle his pinky. "Don't do that…I said don't!" He snapped uncharacteristically, caused his boss's eyebrows to rise. "Uh...he was taken from me at the…..Jay! Don't!"

"That hurts?" Jason questioned. Huh, he was usually Boss. Sometimes Jason. Rarely, if ever, Jay. Not from Brock anyway. "Hurts, how?"

"I want to know what the hell happened out there." Eric interrupted.

"I'm trying to…..OW!"

"Start back at the village." Ray said calmly. "Metal said he left the two of you to go get the Humvee, no one was anywhere near you."

Three, now four, people firing questions at him and Jason urging him to let him see his thumb, was more than he could handle.

"I. Don't. Know."

"Hey, calm down." Ray slapped Jason's hands away from Brock's. "Just take a moment, we want answers, but when you're ready." He put up a hand to pull Sonny up short. "You want anything? Coffee? Water?"

"Nothing." He shifted his weight. "I don't know what you want…."

"Brock?" Eric pushed, arms crossed. "My balls are to the wall here, it took threats from the Pentagon to gain entrance into this hospital and now I have to explain an attempt on the life of an American Special Ops operator. I need something."

"I don't know!" Temper finally roused, he struggled to contain it . "I didn't **_force_** my way in here. I **_never_** pulled my gun. I didn't ** _ threaten_**anyone!" Well, he had, but only with words no one had understood. "I got off the ambulance, Clay was gone. I asked where he was but no one understood a **_DAMN_** word I said."

"Okay, okay." Ray said calmly. "I'm sure it was a mad-house here. It's okay." He gave his teammate a comforting squeeze on his good shoulder meant to reassure and calm him. "Take a minute."

"I got through some locked doors, my hand was bleeding," it was all a bit hazy, made more so by Jason's god-damn dogged persistence to see his hand. "…aah, the doctor spoke a bit of English, told me where to find Clay…I never saw another person until the bed alarm went off. No nurse ever came in."

"What about in town? What happened?" Eric demanded.

"I left Clay sitting on the ground, turned my back to get our gear….next thing I know, he was jumped, there was a fight. He might know more, but he hasn't been with it enough to talk to me." Brock snapped, making Ray pause at his tone. "I don't know anymore Blackburn."

"And whose fault is that?" Sonny asked sarcastically. "You know better than to take your eyes off him."

Brock swallowed. He was feeling more than a little overwhelmed. He was upset. He was scared. He hadn't meant to let anything that had happened, happen.

"What did they want? Did you see them? Your weapons, you think?"

"You just left him sitting there? What were you thinking?"

"You were able to shoot one."

"I dunno. No." The bitter taste in his mouth soured his stomach. Was Clay getting the third degree? Was anyone demanding he answer questions? Or Metal? "I….you…." Hot, hungry and dirty, he'd been thinking he'd like to collect their shit and return to the base for a shower and meal. "Whoever jumped him, split….." He'd been tired, so tired. His muscles had ached, his joints had been stiff. "Just…I dunno….I dunno."

"You shot one." Ray said again. "Sonny, back off."

"I did? Didn't…maybe. They were…just gone, and I got to him, but…there were lights and sirens, and people everywhere…they kept trying to take him from me." He shrugged, hissed when his arm protested. Yeah, the swelling had gone past his elbow. He suspected his physical defense of Clay hadn't been the best action for his hand. "Uh, dunno…was dark, lots going on…."

"They took the body with them."

"Huh." Brock pushed a hand through his hair, disturbed dust, coughed. Would this fucking night ever end?

"He's been through enough." Ray was telling Blackburn. "Can't this wait 'til we get him back to base? Get him something to eat, let him get a shower?"

_Yeah, that. Let's do that. I can't even think straight anymore….you dig and lift concrete and hump huge timber, see how your muscles feel, what kind of mood you're in. I don't even know what time it is and hey, someone just tried to kill my teammate in a locked-down hospital while I was taking 10 seconds for myself, 'cause a cup of coffee sounded good….but yeah, sure, I'm doing just fine. Everything's okey-dokey._

"Why wasn't he wearing his helmet?"

Well, that just came out of fucking nowhere and Brock lost it.

"I. DON'T. KNOW! You weren't there Sonny! I…it was hot, it'd been hours, we were tired and dirty…and HEY, _you make him do something he doesn't want to do_!" Brock shook off Ray's hand. No one questioned why he hadn't been wearing his. Yeah, Clay had taken his off, they both had and neither had seen any reason to put them back on. It had been hot and they itched and it had felt good not to have it on sweaty, sticky hair. "Like to see you try. Hell, you couldn't even get him off you 5 minutes ago."

Sonny growled. "He'd been knocked out just hours before that! You remember that? He shudda had his helmet on!"

"He fainted." Vic corrected, pulled Sonny's ire in his direction, took a step back. "What?" He pointed to his mouth. "Fat lip, remember? You all thought…hahaha."

"He was _knocked_ out!" Sonny argued right back, slapped Vic's hand away from his mouth. "What the hell do you know? Shut the fuck up!"

"Trent never said that." Vic countered. "Ain't that the motto? What Trent says, goes?"

"You little turd…." Sonny lunged forward, was pushed back by Ray and Vic ducked behind Blackburn. "Gonna tar and feather you….see you get outta that, you fucking little weasel."

"Enough!" Eric rubbed his forehead. Good God, this day, night, whatever, was never going to end. How the hell, had he ended up here, in _this_ situation? This team kept him awake at night, and his wife, bless her patient, understanding soul, would lay awake with him and they'd joke about ways Bravo could find trouble and the very next time they did, it was in a way neither he nor his wife had ever thought of.

Ray nudged Jason, motioned with his head for his boss to collect attitudes and knock heads together.

"Sonny, you're out of line." Jason's determination to see Brock's thumb was denied, left him frustrated and his attention wasn't really focused on Ray. "Lopez, you ever know when to quit?"

"Lemme see." Trent was pushing Jason aside, reaching for Brock's hand. "Clay's pretty dopey, someone give him something?" He maneuvered Brock away from Jason, held his hand, checked the tightness of the bandage, the tape. Fingered the swollen skin, traced it with his fingers up to his elbow. "Can you hold you hand out like this…palm down? No? Okay."

"In the ambulance." Brock hissed, flinched away. "Trent….ow."

"You let him be medicated in the ambulance?! Why would you do that?" Sonny stepped forward, Ray pushed him back. "You were right there!"

Jason clenched his jaw so tight, his eyes popped. Brock hadn't even let him hold his hand and here he was, letting Trent do whatever the hell he wanted. Sometimes the littlest things, just ticked him off for no reason.

"That hurt?" Trent knew it did, his tone implied as much. "Wasn't swollen like this when I glued it." He didn't ask whether or not anyone at the hospital had given Clay anything more. If if they had, Brock wouldn't know what and all the question and following answer would do, was incite Sonny further.

"I can't believe you let them give him any medication!" Sonny said incredulously.

"Sonny, enough!" Jason stressed. "You're swimming laps 'til you sink. You keep it up, it's gonna be in the ocean, not a pool."

"I didn't _let_ anyone do _anything_." Brock snapped, forgot about Trent. His anger, always slow to rise, was beginning to stir. "Jesus Sonny, you make it sound like he's five and I can just make him do what I want."

"It just happened?" Sonny exclaimed, still in disbelief. "Ambulances aren't that big Brock! He wouldn't have been out of your sight."

"Yeah, Sonny," Brock was getting mighty tired of the attitude. "It. Just. Happened."

"I told you _enough_." Jason barked at Sonny. "Now. Back. The. Fuck. Off!"

"What about when you arrived here?" Trent was pressing gently, searching with just his finger-tips. For what, Brock didn't know. There was more to the ambulance story because Sonny was right; Brock wouldn't have just sat there and let the medics give Clay so much as a drink of water if he hadn't provided the bottle.

Vic wondered what the hell Trent was doing but didn't ask. He might be dense, but he wasn't stupid. He'd pushed Jason as far as he dared. He sure as hell didn't want to be swimming laps anywhere with Sonny. Still though, Trent was feeling Brock's hand and arm up to his elbow through the sling and that just wasn't what medics did.

Field medics applied dressings, attached clamps, glued, sewed, stapled, did whatever needed to be done to stop a guy from bleeding out. They started IV's and blood transfusions to stabilize an injured man until they could exfil him out. Field medics weren't supposed to know about medications and injuries such as muscle or tendon or ligament damage.

But this was Trent, and he lived to learn, and with Doc assigned to the team, those two were always holed up somewhere….so, yeah, it was safe to say, Trent probably knew much more than a mere field medic. Though, that was Vic speculating - because no one ever told him anything.

"Uh….I…..ow. They took him from me at the door. By the time I stepped down from the ambu….."

"So, they saw and treated him here and you don't know what they did? If they gave him anything?" Sonny just wouldn't let it go. "They could have given him anything Brock. Dammit, you know better!"

"Fuck you!" Brock blew up, turned away as Jason cuffed Sonny upside the head hard enough he knocked him off balance and made him stumble. He couldn't deal with Sonny right now. He was a little hurt, Trent had immediately gone straight to Clay, hadn't asked if he were okay or if anything was wrong. "Christ, I seem to recall a time or two, you lost him. Where the hell were you then?"

"Hey, hey, hey," Ray, always the voice of calm and reason, stepped between the two, faced Brock who was dancing around Trent. "Just Brock, we waited for your call."

"Cell's don't get a signal, you figure out how to dial out on the landline, you let me know."

"Then step outside."

"Right, right, 'cause it's so easy to get in here."

"What happened in the ambulance?" Trent asked. "Lemme see you move your thumb." He waited, but when Brock made no attempt to move even a finger on his swollen hand, he didn't ask again, or make him. "The ambulance ride?" He prompted, and with a shaky sigh, Brock told the story how Clay had ended up being sedated in the ambulance.

"All over a sling?" Sonny growled.

Brock paled and Eric bit back a string of curses, poked a finger into Sonny's chest, walked him backwards. "One more word out of you and I will have you escorted to base and locked down."

Sonny blinked. Say what?

"Sonny, go give Spenser some Tylenol, take his temperature….he's not gonna like being with Metal." He gave a smug smirk: and that Lt. Commander Eric Blackburn, is how you get Sonny Quinn out of a room.

"He okay?" Brock asked wearily. "Was pretty unsettled. Kept saying he was hot. I got him undressed, tried to help him cool down but…"

"You did?" Trent asked. "Guess it makes sense. He'd let you do whatever you wanted. Wouldn't take to a strange nurse, though he could communicate with her. He gave her a hard time, huh?"

"Never saw one. No one came in."

"Wait, you got him undressed with one hand?" Ray asked. "Huh. Good job."

"Sir?" The solider from the base, who had been translating for him, called Eric's attention. "They'd like a word with you." He gestured to several armed officers, men in suits, probably hospital bigwigs, hospital security, none of whom looked at all friendly.

"Now?" Eric rubbed his neck. All he wanted was the phone call – yes, he was able to make and receive calls on a satellite phone – saying the way for them to leave had been cleared. "Master Chief?"

So, Blackburn was all business now.

"Trent? You good?" Both Jason and Ray were following Eric.

"I got him." Came the terse reply. "Work on getting us out of here." He'd come out of Clay's room to ask Brock if the kid had been given any medication, saw his friend and just knew, something was wrong. He'd automatically assumed Clay needed him and he had to learn not to keep doing that.

Clay had been in a hospital bed – well, sitting on one – and Brock had been standing on his own two feet, and habit had become - Clay first. But the kid's worry about Brock had made him question his choice, so he'd left Metal to finish clean-up, knowing the big guy was capable of doing it even though it made him squeamish, while he went to corner Brock.

And he now he knew he'd neglected the worse injury in favor of what had become habit. He was going to be kicking himself for that one for quite some time.

"Guess Jason's okay? Seems okay." Brock tried to deflect, but this was Trent – no deflecting allowed. "His ears?" He went ignored.

"Take it out of that sling." Trent ordered, waited. The swelling and discoloration he could see in Brock's fingers and on the back of his hand were extensive: red, shades of various purples, white. Bruising.

Take it out? Yeah, he didn't think he was going to do that.

"Head hurt?"

How the hell had Trent known that? "Uh…yeah, a bit." Bit? Ha. His fucking teeth throbbed. His vision simply would not clear no matter how many times or how fast he blinked and there was an annoying buzzing in his ears. "Couple aspirin, I'll be…, uh, good." He wondered if his voice was as weak as it sounded.

By the look on Trent's voice, yeah, it was. Christ alive, he must sound pretty fucking pathetic.

"You'll be good." Trent repeated, snorted. "Yeah, sure." He rolled his eyes. "Let. Me. See."

Epic stare down. Block blinked first, lost the battle of determination. He was just too mentally exhausted and physically sore to stand his ground against Trent of all people. He released the sling, let it fall, tried and failed to lift his hand away from its snug position against his side.

"So, we good?" Brock tried, failed to shrug him off. "Can Clay leave?"

"See what happens when you don't listen to me?" From some pocket or another, Trent produced a pair of scissors, wedged the tip under the tight tape, began to cut without making Brock move his hand away from where it rested. "Metal's got him until we can leave. Blackburn's working on getting out of here."

"Okay, yeah…but…." He hissed, trembled with the effort to remain still. Trent glanced up at him, eased off the pressure he was applying a bit. "He's running a feve…..Uh…listen? I did….when did I, ow, not?"

"I wanted you to go with Sonny to the base infirmary." Trent reminded him. "Dermabond didn't hold?"

"Uh, no."

"So, the dive over the bed and the tackle to the floor?"

"You heard about that?" Brock said surprised. Trent had been in the room with Clay when Brock had told the others what had happened since they'd been separated from Metal at the village.

Trent nodded. "Got ears, hear just fine." He cut through the last of the tape, saw the thick pads and white gauze it secured, cut through that as well, saw the stitches, burnt skin – lost it. "JESUS CHRIST BROCK! The HELL is this?"

Crusted scabs gave way, blood oozed, pooled, spilled. The stitches, no longer compressed by tight bandages, puffed and swelled as Trent watched.

"Dunno." He pushed unruly curls off his forehead. "Guess….I….dunno."

"The _hell_ did you do?"

"Dunno."

"The doc tried to cauterize it?"

"Uh, guess so, dunno. Maybe. Hurt like a motherhumper."

"With what? How? Electrocautery?"

What the hell was electro-whatever? "Aah…" Brock blinked. He didn't know. He really didn't know. "I dunno."

"You just sat there, let him light a fire, heat a knife, burn the shit outta you?"

"What?" Brock gave his head a shake. "NO!" He was very sure the doctor hadn't done that! "NO!"

"The hell Brock? YOU WERE THERE!"

"Yeah, but….I…." He'd been there physically. Mentally….well….not so much.

"Do you get why I _hate_ medical care over here? Do you get it now?"

"Uh…I dunno. Yeah?"

"You let him do this? Why? Why would you do that?"

"I dunno Trent. It was crowded and loud and I wanted to find Clay. Everyone was all up in my face, and no one understood a word I said….and just well….I….dunno." He finished lamely.

"You say dunno one more time, I'm gonna pop you in the mouth." Trent seethed. "Can you move your thumb?"

Brock gritted his teeth, locked his knees, concentrated.

"Any finger?" Trent could move them slightly one at a time and though he knew it had to hurt, Brock let him.

Brock shook his head, quite sure, were he to try, he'd end up on his knees.

"He give you anything for inflammation?"

"Uh Tylenol with codeine. Amoxicillin-something."

"Tell me you took the antibiotic."

"There were only 4." Brock mumbled, unable to lift his eyes from his dirty boots.

"And that means what?" Trent asked even though he knew the answer. "You gave them to Clay." He saw red – the walls, the floor, the literal air, red everywhere. "Didn't you?" He didn't wait for confirmation. "The _hell_ is _wrong_ with you!?"

Brock frowned, Trent was pretty pissed. For the life of him, he could not recall if he'd given Clay all four. The last two….uhm, he'd meant to, but….

"He….I….he's…"

"Oh, hell!" Trent didn't really raise his voice, but oh, his tone….oh-oh. "No! No! Don't you dare! Don't you dare stand there and tell me, he needed the meds more than you did. Don't you do that."

Brock uselessly tried to explain. "He was running a fever, was so unsettled….his arm was swollen, and red and he….."

"And yours isn't? Look! Do you see this? There's no good reason why you didn't put yourself first. None."

"I didn't know what they gave him or how he was going to react. Or if they gave him anything more. I couldn't find anyone and the meds were on the list he can have. The hell did you want me to do? I did what I thought….."

"I want you to take care of yourself! Clay is a grown man! He can damn well take care of himself! You probably have ligament damage Brock. Or maybe compartment syndrome. I'm outta my league here." Like, why the bleeding would not stop. "You likely tore extensor tendons in your thumb….at most, you're looking at surgery to keep full function of your hand!"

"But Clay….." If grown-man Clay could take care of his damn self, why had Trent seen to him first? Huh? Brock would like to see the-oh-so-great-medic answer that one!

"Did you take the pain meds?" Tylenol with codeine wasn't much of a pain medication, wouldn't even touch the pain Brock must feel from his thumb, but at least if he had, he'd have consumed some Tylenol.

"Uh, yeah….yeah, I did." Hadn't he? He thought so. Had taken all four, right? "I passed the water fountain…and…"

"You. Drank. The. Water." The disapproving medic tone came out, full force. "From. A. Fountain? **_Here_**?"

Brock blew his breath out, Christ, he couldn't say or do anything right. His focus had been on Clay, keeping him calm and quiet, making sure he knew Brock was right there and okay so he didn't flip out.

"What the hell is wrong with you? What were you thinking? How many times have I said it? DON'T DRINK THE WATER in places like this."

"Like this?" Brock shot back. He shouldn't go there, he knew better. One of Bravo's unspoken rules was; don't talk back to the medic. But he did. He just couldn't help himself. "IT'S A HOSPITAL!"

"Oh. Oh. Okay. Yeah, I get it. Sure." Trent snarked. "Of course, right. They run pipes underground from a completely different water supply for hospitals over here. You should write a book."

Brock was barely hanging on. He was emotionally and mentally exhausted. Physically, he was done. If it weren't for Clay, he'd have passed out by now. Trent in his face just might prove his breaking point.

"How did you think you were gonna help Clay, you face-planted because you ignored your hand?"

"Dunno." He winced, soon as he said it, because Trent always made good on his threats.

Trent popped him in the mouth.

Brock crumpled to the floor in a heap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* Oh dear, this chapter ran away from me...anyone mind? No? Didn't think so. One more to go to! Happy Summer!


	5. Chapter 5

"What the hell's that?" Metal asked when Sonny returned with mini cans of soda. "Seriously? Soda? You're joking."

"Ginger ale." Sonny didn't get the big deal. "He settle down any?"

"What?" Metal looked around, sighed when Lopez followed Sonny in. "Hasn't even tried to sit up." Didn't Vic have somewhere else to be? Man. "I'dda put him down, he tried."

"He's still in bed? Huh. Didn't think he'd stay there with just you here." Sonny set a bowl of ice on the bedside table, wheeled it closer. "Gimme a mallet. Left side, pocket with two snaps."

A mallet? Really? Vic obeyed when Metal didn't move, took that to mean Sonny was talking to him. Right, right, course he was. Metal would know where to find this mallet in the backpack that was a med kit. Metal apparently knew everything, 'cause he was always preaching.

What he pulled out, was not what he would call a mallet, but it was what Sonny wanted because when the Texan saw it, he held out his hand, waggled his fingers impatiently. Vic passed over the miniature-sized-hammer, watched in silence while Sonny smashed the ice into smaller chunks, made slush.

The hell was he doing?

"Hey, here now. Not like he don't know me." Metal protested, somewhat offended – no, hurt – that his teammate would assume the little shit would attempt to run away from him. "We fly together, jump together, train together, fight together, go into combat together, hang out together….the hell man….fuck you!"

Sonny smirked, added the slivered ice to a cup, poured ginger-ale over it, stuck in a straw, handed it to Clay, who was now sitting up, waiting to take it. Sonny added water to the bowl of remaining ice, soaked a cloth, handed it to Clay who, after finishing the soda, buried his face in it.

Clay moaned, muffled. "Gawd. That feels soooo damn good."

"That good for him?" Vick asked. "Don't think you're supposed to do that. Shock to the system, and all. The body, you know?"

"Your name Trent?"

"No.

"You a medic?"

"No."

"Any further training than what we all had in first-aid?"

"No."

"Then shut the fuck up."

Metal raised a hand, cocked his head towards the door. "What's going on out there?"

"Dunno. Guessin' Trent's reading Brock the riot act." Sonny blew it off as not worth his attention. "Rightly so too, I reckon."

"For what?"

"This whole mess." Sonny gave Clay's knee a pat. "You good? No…oh." He took the cloth Clay held the cloth out, rewet it, gave it back as Metal stepped closer to the door. "Let's the kid get jumped, drugged, treated here at this shit place…."

"Don't think I've ever seen Trent angry." Vic mused. "Or Brock. Huh."

"…..where someone tried to snuff him out, 'cause he needed coffee or something." Sonny continued, ignored the interruption. He didn't know the whole story, had overheard bits, seen the spilled coffee, abandoned cup, added it up, came to his own conclusion.

Clay, awash in misery, tried to fight through a fog he was quite content to remain in - not because he wanted to, but because he _had_ to. He was hot and uncomfortable and his arm, for whatever reason, wanted to both hurt and ignore his commands to cease and desist its rebelliousness. He simply didn't want to be bothered with anything but the blessed oblivion of sleep where he could escape, but yeah, Sonny….

He was wet, and he hated being wet and worse, the sheets were soiled, the blanket was damp and wouldn't behave and lay gently like he wanted it to. He felt like he needed to fight it and he was just either too tired or too lazy to do more than bat at it with a limp hand…and that did absolutely nothing except piss him off.

'Cause yeah….Sonny.

"You're….an….ass."

Sonny and Metal turned in tandem to goggle at the sight of Clay who was once again out of bed, standing unsteadily without support; one hand holding the cloth over his face, the other arm extended to ward off Vic.

"What are you doing up?" Sonny demanded. "Get back in bed. I put you there once already, you make me do it again, I'm cuffin' you to the rail."

"Fuck you." Clay retorted. He high-stepped, side-stepped, tried to free his feet from the now-on-the-floor-twisted blanket. "Why you gotta be such a dick?" He lost his balance, fell forward, was caught by Metal. "He didn't leave to get himself coffee. He left to find me Tylenol, you asshole." Safe in Metal's arms, he pushed at his bangs. "Cause it's hot. I'm hot."

"I don't need this." Metal told the minions of God, the universe, whoever, whatever. "I really don't." Oh, but he and Master Chief Jason Hayes were gonna have words. "The hell Spenser?" But he didn't release the kid. Vic crouched down, freed the blanket, tossed it back onto the bed. "Do you _ever_ stay put?" He groused, felt the warmth radiating from the sweaty body in his arms. Damn, no wonder the kid kept complaining he was hot.

"None of this is Brock's fault." Feet unencumbered by the wayward blanket, Clay gained his balance, hesitated then left the stable security of Metal's hold, headed for the door, was stopped by Sonny. "Get out of my way."

"You're not getting out of this room." Metal said firmly, stepped forward, took a swipe to regain custody of the little shit, missed. "HEY! Come back here!" He hesitated, felt with Sonny there, he was safe from whatever Spenser might take it into his head to do, slung an arm around the kid's waist, swept him off his feet and tossed him one-armed onto the bed.

Vic whistled. "Man Metal, one-armed? He ain't no light-weight neither. Way to manhandle him." He slowly, with exaggeration, clapped in mock pride. "Gotta show me how to do that!" He whistled. "Well done."

Glaring ominously, Clay warned. "You do that a third time, I'm kicking back."

"Trent's got him." One-armed indeed, Metal hid his wince. He was gonna pay for that move later. Hell, he might even have thrown his back out. He whipped an unopened package of gauze at Vic, it bounced off the younger man's chest. "Get. Out." Show him how to do that? Pfft….Metal had an advantage over Spenser the newbie would never have – height. "Lopez, I swear, I'm gonna pound you like you're a punching bag hanging from the rafters in my garage if you don't get outta my sight."

Vic wavered, then retreated, kept a wary eye on Metal whose, even he could tell, patience was wearing thin. Jason was harsh, threatened punishment, but never violence. Vic was beginning to see why Metal no longer led Alpha. The big guy needed some serious anger management classes.

"I dunno what…." Clay swallowed, wiped his face, crawled around on the bed but failed to summon the bravery needed to venture off it. "I….shit…." Everything was a blur. Events, the order in which they happened, who was involved – but one thing he knew…none of this was Brock's fault. He pulled the blanket over his lap, clutched it in his fists, winced at the pull on the stitches in his arm. "Brock's….I mean….he saved me from being taken…."

"Hell Spenser, he's the reason you're here." Sonny pointed out. "I'm here rather than in bed sleeping off meds because of him. His fuck up is why we're all here. Here is this shit-hole. You have no idea what Blackburn is dealing with because he…."

"You didn't have to come." Lopez pointed out. "Blackburn, Jason and Trent came after them. You were left on base with us." He was poised to take flight, should Metal shift his weight in preparation of perhaps _thinking_ to take a step.

He was ignored by everyone, though he was flipped off by Metal.

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't be such a sissy." Clay irritably clapped back with sudden clarity. "Little boo-boo and you let Trent send you off to the infirmary, hospital….fuck, I dunno…wherever the hell he sent you...like the little pansy-ass bitch you are. You're so quick to lay blame, and you weren't even there."

"Boo-boo? Now see here, this ain't a little boo-boo, you..."

"Taken?" Metal questioned, raised a hand to silence Sonny – didn't go well. "Taken? Not killed? Was he or was he not, trying to kill you?" He took a breath. "Really Quinn! Enough! _Shut up_!" Metal rarely pulled rank while running with Bravo, but he'd had enough. "Clay? They tried to take you? Not kill you? How do you know that? _Do_ you know that for sure?" Because every little bit of information, every detail, no matter how small, mattered. "Hey, talk to me. Ignore him. Clay? _Clay_? CLAY?!"

"What I hear, it was a woman, he'd be dead." Lopez quipped. "He don't fight back against woman, right Spenser?"

But Clay was focused on Sonny, ignored Vic, ignored Metal. "He sat here with me…ignored his hand…it kept bleeding….he needed help, I…" He paused, tried to think. "Uh…I remember, I think…I tried to get up, wanted to find someone….but he wouldn't let me…blocked me with…with...his leg. I dunno, heard something about Tylenol, to stay put, he'd be right back. Next thing I knew, he was diving over the bed….so yeah, Sonny, try talking to him instead of yelling at him."

"HEY! Senior rank here in the room wants some answers!" Metal cut in sharply, threw his hands up in defeat. Great, just fucking great.

"He should have waited and gone when the nurse came in to clean you up." Sonny waved a hand at the mess of trash, dirty paper towels - wet, drying, dry, discarded on the floor among coffee and blood smeared footprints, Clay's pile of clothes. "Then you wouldn't have been alone for someone to just, you know, oh...kill you?" Being obstinate, he refused to acknowledge the likely and obvious fact that the used and discarded medical supplies, wrappers and trash were from Trent treating Clay, not hospital medical personnel.

"Or she cudda been killed." Vic quipped from the doorway, put his hands in up in surrender. "Just saying."

Metal moved, Vic fled.

"Piss poor job she did, by the way." Sonny scoffed. "Oh, got something to say?" He asked at Clay's look. "You wanna fight? Least she tried, that it? Gonna defend her? You call this care? Look at you."

"Yeah, Sonny. I do." Clay, now sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, did not look at all like a man who shot people in the head for a living and was capable of snapping necks and choking someone unconscious in mere seconds. Hell, he didn't even look threatening. He just sat and stared at Sonny, looking all of five-years old while thinking about trying to get up.

He caught Metal's go-ahead-and-try-it-you-little-shit-I-dare-you-sneer, thought it best he stayed right where he was. He didn't relish a third lift and toss but it was the fact that such an action left him dizzy and light-headed that kept him on his ass in bed, not a reluctance to go up against Metal again. Brock was with Trent and Jason must be nearby, all was good, he didn't need to worry about him anymore.

Sonny snorted. "You're a fucking mess. Dirty, wet, sweaty." He kicked at a boot on the floor, looked around, didn't see the second one. "She got you outta your clothes, she couldn't pick them up off the floor? Clean you up better?"

"There wasn't any nurse." He said simply, covered his face with the towel he desperately wanted re-wetted and flopped flat onto his back. "Brock did it."

Sonny looked at the bed, the table, the floor, the chair, the pile of clothes - Brock had gotten Clay undressed with one hand and he doubted Clay had helped - the mess…and didn't he just feel like shit. What little care and comfort Clay had received had come from a man who may have went and ruined his career in order to give it.

()()()

Jason was edgy, let Blackburn deal with whatever the 'crisis' was now. His hearing had returned but the brief stab of fear it might be permanent even though Doc had assured him it was only temporary, had given him a headache like no other he'd ever had in his life.

The added stress and tension over his somewhat missing men and the following crap-fest that had delayed his ability to get to them here at the hospital had resulted in lost patience and all understanding of the situation and he really didn't see how Blackburn managed to remain calm and cordial. He felt like Sonny's axe was lodged in his skull. He'd had enough of this mortal coil – it was time for this fucking nightmare to end.

Brock needed a shower, something to eat. He didn't know if Trent and Metal had had anything to eat either. Metal had showered, Trent hadn't. Sonny needed to be set straight, Vic put in his place. Metal needed to be talked down; he was all over the place because shit had blown to hell on his watch when he'd gone and left Brock and Clay behind – Jason would put Ray on that. They all needed sleep. Clay needed to be handled; would be left in the infirmary with a guard on the door to make sure he stayed there. After a short nap, he and Ray would hunker down with Davis and Blackburn, see what they could find out about the men who had jumped Clay.

In other words: He wanted the fuck out of this hospital – he had things to see to, to do.

Yet here he was, listening to these assholes yammer on about reimbursement, compensation, how the bill was going to be paid, who was responsible – the American government, State Department, military….yadda, yadda, yadda. How Blackburn was able to remain calm and patient was beyond him.

Jason shifted his weight in agitation, turned in a circle a time or two. His hands were in his hair, crossed over his chest, on his hips, making circular motions and Eric just nodded and answered; yes sir, no sir, I understand sir, I'm sorry you see it that way sir, we'll take care of that sir.

Good God in heaven, but he wanted to plant a fist and knock some heads together.

Eric stopped talking and yes-sirring when they heard Trent raise his voice. He and Jason both looked over.

"Sounds tense." Eric nudged an elbow into his chief's kidney to claim his attention, nodded towards Trent and Brock.

Jason managed a disinterested glance in their direction. He had more shit on his mind then the two of his men who were the least likely to find trouble – though if Blackburn had been privy to that private thought, he would have strongly disagreed. That they were arguing was obvious even to anyone who didn't know them. That it would amount to anything – in Jason's opinion – was doubtful.

"We need to get outta here." He thought Trent would have insisted on it by now, wondered why he hadn't, dismissed whatever altercation was brewing between the two, as not worth his attention.

"Waiting on a phone call." Eric reminded him patiently. "Soon."

"I say we just get Clay and go. Trent didn't say there was any reason the kid had…." Jason put a palm up when one of the men they were talking to tried to interrupt. "In a minute."

"Whoa!" Eric bolted forward when Trent lashed out, popped a fist right in Brock's mouth.

Hands on his hips, Jason looked upwards, rolled his eyes. His medic didn't just hit people. That was Metal. Sometimes Sonny. So, what the fuck now?

"Hey, hey, hey!" Jason approached his two men with trepidation. He didn't know what was going on, but he didn't like it. "The hell Trent!" He stood over Brock, stared down. "Care to explain?"

"Leave him." Trent said sharply when Ray came running, went to his knees beside an unmoving Brock. He snagged a nearby stool, lifted Brock's feet to elevate them above heart level, loosened his belt, opened his fly. "Water, he wakes up. No caffeine."

"You just knocked him out Trent." Ray returned, voice all authority. "Out cold."

Bewildered, but correctly interpreting Trent's next move, Eric asked. "Going somewhere?"

"He fainted." Trent corrected. He hadn't hit Brock hard enough to even knock him off balance, let alone off his feet. Out cold? No way in hell. And yes, he was going somewhere, he needed medical supplies: Something to stop the bleeding, clippers to remove broken stitches, a splint, ace wrap, sling, brace, something, anything to prohibit Brock from moving his thumb, ice, meds.

He knew Jason was itching to leave and Blackburn was working on getting permission to do so, but Clay wasn't the priority here, Brock was. The kid was under the supervision of both Sonny and Metal and Brock needed to come first. Somewhere in this hospital was everything Trent needed to stabilize his friend's hand and he wasn't leaving until he'd done so.

"You hit him." Ray rose to his feet. They always slapped Clay awake, threw water in his face, waved smelling salts under his nose. Brock? Apparently, you elevated his feet and left him alone. "That was uncalled for."

"Butt. Out."

Jason believed he knew Trent as well as any man was capable of knowing him, and Trent Sawyer kept to himself. Until Clay Spenser had come along, Trent had just done his job, no fuss, no muss.

The medic loved a good fight. Didn't hesitate to throw a punch and he had a mean left. But he didn't fight his teammates and he sure as hell didn't _just_ hit them. Or knock them out. So yes, Jason was damn sure Brock had indeed fainted. But the medic's sharp snap at Ray, had him rethinking his knowledge of the man who had served with him for….well, many years now.

"Then tell me Trent, why would he just up and faint at your feet?"

"HEY! Come back here, you little shit!"

Everyone looked at Metal's shout, were greeted with the sight of Clay in the doorway of his room before he disappeared, completely lifted off his feet and swung around, away from the door.

He grunted, Metal grunted, Blackburn sighed, shook his head, looked heavenward. All he needed now, was Spenser acting up and Metal failing to control him. Sonofabitch!

"Because he's a dumb ass who ignored his hand, gave his meds to Clay." He didn't add the meds were inadequate for either of them. He didn't need that argument right now. "Now he has an infection and most likely ripped tendons from bone."

"Because of an infection?" Vic asked dubiously. "That makes no sense."

Trent blinked. Where the hell had that little rot-gut shown up from?

"Boss, I swear to God, he opens his mouth one more time, he's losing some teeth." Trent vowed. "Shut the fuck up Lopez. I'm done playing."

"Wow, you guys sure like to throw that threat out. It's getting old." Vic sneered. "Spenser's hit was a sucker punch you set me up for. Not gonna happen again." He'd never even seen Trent lose his temper before, let alone witnessed him issuing threats. Yeah, yeah, the mild-mannered medic was always happily kicking in doors and blowing shit up, but, go after someone with his fists? Naw!

"So, what are you saying?" Ray asked. Trent wasn't backing down and Ray thought maybe they'd pushed too far. "Lopez..."

"Yeah, yeah, go away, get lost..."

"I'm saying, instead of seeking help when his hand got worse, he sat with Clay and did nothing." Trent spat. "He didn't want to leave the kid alone, when he did, someone went and tried to snuff him out, forcing him to tackle and wrestle the man to the floor and now he'll be damn lucky, surgery regains him full use of that hand."

"What do you need?" Eric asked calmly. Could anything _more_ be heaped onto his plate? Piled on? Thrown his way?

"Sat phone. Med bag. Someone to tell me where I can find a splint, brace, sling." He carried such supplies with him, but not the grade and quality he needed. He didn't want Brock moving his thumb, hand or wrist and he was going to make damn sure he didn't.

"Aren't you going to wake him up? Bring him around?" Ray asked.

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Now, see here Trent…" Ray began, saw he wasn't swaying the medic to his way of thinking. "We need to talk to him. Find out..."

"Some dumb ass quack burned his hand to stop the bleeding Ray. Dunno how he's managing the pain, but he's gotta be in a lot of it." Trent shut his 2IC down. "You got eyes? Look. See that hand? You see that Ray? How's that look to you? You see his elbow? No? Why's that, you think? Too much swelling maybe?"

"Jason? Wanna help me out here?" Ray cupped his hands behind his neck. Brock's hand truly looked awful...off-colored, swollen, bleeding, bruised...or maybe that was black skin from a burn? Damn. He swallowed. He really didn't want to know.

"What?" Jason said disinterestedly. When in medic mode, he never questioned or reined Trent in. "No."

"Sonny gets kidney stones, he eats too much spinach. Jason gets the flu, he's in the desert. Brock faints, he's in pain. I'm gonna take care of his hand, do what I can to make sure he keeps full function of his thumb, send Doc photos, best he 'sleep'," Trent actually made air quotes. "Through it."

"But someone tried to take, maybe kill Clay..."

"Clay. Is. Fine." Trent clenched a fist. "What happened can wait, don't like it...go out there and start digging for leads on your own."

And that, Eric held the sat phone out, was that. The medic had spoken.


	6. Chapter 6

Brock sat in the dark, empty cafeteria. It was closed, well past the hours of operation – whatever the hell time that was – and he was alone, sitting on a counter, his feet dangling, nursing a bottle of what passed as maybe apple juice.

His hand was glued, taped, wrapped, taped some more, splinted, secured in a brace via Velcro and buckles, and rendered completely immobile courtesy of Trent. His arm was held tight against his stomach, supported by a sling that went over his opposite shoulder and around his waist. He couldn't remove his arm from the sling without unbuckling a couple straps but he wasn't in extreme pain, just slight discomfort and he could ignore that. The plastic bag of ice nestled inside the sling on his wrist pretty much kept it numb. Trent hadn't wanted to stitch or stable the wound - _this isn't a cut Brock, it's a fucking wound_ \- on his thumb due to the skin that had been damaged by the doctors attempt to cauterize it.

Whatever.

It hadn't been a wound at the village when Trent had applied Dermabond, but now, here at the hospital, the medic acted like Brock had severed his thumb. Eh, he was too tired to care. If Trent said glue, with the addition of steri-strips would hold it this time, who the hell was Brock to argue?

He took a drink, tried despite being told not to, because doing the opposite is what men did, to wiggle a finger. Any finger. But nope, the way Trent had his hand bandaged and wrapped and taped, he couldn't even bend or spread his fingers. Didn't know why that was, it was his thumb that was supposedly the problem, but yeah, whatever. Trent had probably told him, but he'd been to 'out of it', to remember if the medic had.

Man, he didn't feel well.

His stomach was in knots, there was a pit in his gut that could be pain, despair, grief, hell he didn't know. He was waiting for his transport coming from the base, arranged by Blackburn, to take him to the air field where he would board a medical transport - whatever that was - to a hospital in Germany where he would have surgery on his thumb.

_Surgery!_

Yeah, that would make anyone despondent. When and why Trent had decided that? Again, if he'd been told, he didn't remember and now, sitting here sulking in the dark, he wondered _how_ Trent had been able to make that decision.

Did it matter. No. Not really.

All they needed to leave was, 'permission'. Sure Bravo could force, fight, their way out of the hospital, but if they were met with hostility or gun fire, they risked an international incident and Blackburn preferred to avoid that if possible. Their commander was being obedient, waiting for the phone call to come from the brass that their way to leave was clear, but if the call came in first that the flight to Germany had been cleared for take-off, come hell, high water or gun fight, Bravo would be leaving.

Because of him.

He'd been told by Trent he likely faced weeks, probably months, possibly half a year, of physical rehab. Great. And he may or may not, regain full use of his hand. A surgeon would be able to tell him more after tests and scans and x-rays and evaluation. That was all beyond Trent's abilities. Apparently, what was included in the medic's abilities were: make the decision Brock needed to be flown to Germany for surgery.

So, his fault his team would be short-handed, down a shooter until his status was known because Jason would wait for him. It's what made Bravo so unique; their leader's willingness to operate without a full team due to his reluctance to run with other operatives from another unit.

He shifted his weight, re-positioned the bag of ice. He was alone. Both in his thoughts and in company. Bravo was scattered, everyone doing something somewhere. He couldn't help but think….Clay wasn't alone. Someone would definitely be keeping an eye on Bravo's 'rookie' and Brock would bet no one could even guess where to find him.

He'd woken up on his back, on the floor in an awkward position that was strangely both comfortable and comforting. Ray had been sitting on a table strewn with magazines nearby, but watching him, not reading and Trent had been on the floor next to his hip, holding Brock's injured hand in his lap, busy snipping and clipping, scraping with a scalpel.

Yeah, that hadn't felt good but he'd been told it was his own fault the _wound_ had to be 'debride' since he'd allowed the good doctor to burn his hand. Oh yeah, Trent was the master of sarcasm.

When Trent was finally done, he'd tried to lower his feet to the floor, but too many hands to count had appeared in his blurry vision and stopped him. He'd been offered water, allowed to come up on his good elbow to drink, and Trent had taken the opportunity to take a cold, wet cloth and vigorously, ruthlessly scrub the dirt from his neck, behind his ears, throat and face. Uh-huh, that'd been fun, trying to drink while his head had bobbed all over the place. Now he knew how Cerberus felt when he toweled the dog down after a swim.

After the administration of a cocktail of medications; steroid for inflammation, oral meds for pain, shot of antibiotic, muscle relaxant, antiemetic patch, he hadn't much cared what Trent was doing. He'd felt nauseated, woozy and dizzy, must have been given Dilaudid, Trent's preferred oral pain medication due to how fast it worked – on him anyway - and had been content to remain on the floor, even if he didn't like his feet up on the table next to Ray who had tried to talk to him about what had happened at the village and later, here at the hospital, but had been firmly shut down by Trent.

And when Ray had complained, backed up by Jason.

Trent hadn't by any means left him alone, but his questions had had nothing to do with the episodes at the village or the hospital. It had been all about his hand, what treatment the doctor had given him, how was his pain, did his elbow hurt, could he feel his shoulder, did he have a wrist, did his palm itch, tingle? All nonsense to Brock, but whatever kept the medic happy.

He still had no idea what medications he'd been given when, but the feeling of wanting to vomit was still there, held at bay by the patch behind his ear. He'd been awake when Trent had applied the patch and at first, he hadn't understood why. Still groggy, he thought it might have been due to strong pain meds, or the combination of too many meds mixed too soon, but then he'd caught a glimpse of his hand.

Oh yeah, Trent knew him well.

By bandaging it tightly, ignoring it and focusing on Clay, he'd been able to believe it was a mere cut on this thumb that simply wouldn't stop bleeding. The sight of his swollen, discolored skin, burst stitches, dried, clotted blood and gaping 'wound' that was raw and red from the recent, thorough cleaning of burnt skin, and the removal of threads and glue, had roiled his stomach. He'd thought the 'wound' was because he was missing his thumb, thought hysterically that Trent had been too gung-ho, and had accidentally snipped and scalped it away. He'd thought he was going to puke. He nearly had, but Trent had assured him he still had his thumb, had given him yet another shot and soon, he'd felt less like up-chucking and more like sleeping.

But Trent hadn't allowed that, because well...he was _Trent._

The medic, who had been in a shitty mood, had applied the patch behind his ear, then just sat beside him until the obvious signs of nausea - sweating, compulsive swallowing, drooling, lip licking - had ceased. He hadn't wanted any help from Ray who had offered to squirt the saline and dab the blood away numerous times. Jason had finally had to tell Ray to let it go. Ray hadn't been happy but another word from Jason and he'd finally fallen silent.

Once the meds had kicked, and Trent was finally finished with his hand, he'd helped him sit up, offered him some Gatorade and made him eat a protein, chocolate covered granola bar. He hadn't felt good at all: dizzy, weak, nauseated, shaky, disoriented. Trent never gave him pain meds on an empty stomach, so the only way to avoid eating the snack would have been to pass out again and that hadn't been an option, though now, Brock wondered what would have happened, had he done so.

Trent had watched until he'd consumed the entire bar, then had helped him off the floor and made him sit in a chair and drink more water.

Ray had started an argument with Jason, Vic had been annoying and a call had come through on Blackburn's sat phone for Trent, so Brock had just melted away. No one had called after him, no one had followed him. He doubted anyone even knew he was gone until after he'd left.

Was he pouting? Jealous? He didn't think so. His sniffed, nose runny, eyes watery. And he wasn't crying either. He was just tired, heavily medicated and stressed over the last, well, however many hours. And there were still so many unanswered questions that weren't his to answer, but bothered him all the same: Why had someone jumped Clay? Why try and take him? Why try and kill him here at the hospital? Or had they merely been trying to render him pliable in order to whisk him away? Did they want him dead? Or did they just want him? That all sounded funny even to his own ears.

How the hell had anyone even gotten inside the hospital with all the security? And who the hell were they?

He sipped the juice, didn't taste it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to eat other than the granola bar. He wasn't hungry but thought maybe Clay would be...right, the kid wasn't his problem anymore. The team was here now.

Ellis, for all her ways and powers of persuasion in the art of interrogation, had nothing. Course, she had yet to get her chance with the man Bravo had in custody. Neither did Davis, and Blackburn had both of them, along with Randy, working on it. Answers would soon come. He knew that, because while he was being tortured on the floor under the guise of Trent rendering care, he'd heard Blackburn tell Jason.

Their permission to leave the hospital would soon come and Bravo would return to the base, while he went in a separate transport to an air field…..alone.

He sighed, dismayed to find his breath was shaky, his lips quivery. Was it exhaustion? Medication? Adrenaline crash? Or was he vulnerable and…..his feelings were hurt?

Sonny had been an ass.  
Jason had been disinterested.  
Ray had been dismissive.  
Metal hadn't even come out to see him.  
Vic was an annoying asshole.  
Blackburn had been up to his ears in red tape and bullshit.  
Trent had been, and still was, mad.  
Clay was…..

"So, I'm grounded."

Brock jumped, flushed in guilt. He'd been so lost in his own musings and self-wallowing, he hadn't heard anyone enter the room and approach.

"Again."

Brock continued to swing his feet, heels kicking gently against the wall beneath the counter. Rat-a-tat-tat. Thump. Rat-a-tat-tat. Thump-thump.

"How can you ground a grown man?" Clay, wearing boxer briefs, t-shirt and socks, easily hoisted his weight onto the counter next to Brock on his right side, knocked shoulders. "We get home, I have to go stay with Trent. Think maybe you can pull your best friend card, get him to let me stay with you?"

"Dunno if that's Trent's decision."

Clay snorted.

Brock shook his head. Right. Injuries and illnesses, Trent made the rules. "Where are your clothes?"

"I dunno."

His feet now swung sideways, the gentle thud of his heels hitting the wall too loud in the silence between teammates. Brock had had to use a chair as a step and hang on with his good hand to gain his seat on the counter. Not Clay. Bad arm, fever, medicated, whatever, he'd placed his palms flat behind him and just pulled/pushed himself up.

Prick. The kid's agility never ceased to astound him.

"Just, he has nine kids…." Clay was saying, called Brock's attention away from the beat of the drummer, drumming in his head. "Like all the same age and they're sooooo noisy."

"Five."

"And I don't think all of them are his." Clay continued. "Every time I go over there and try and count, none of them are the same."

"Janine shares custody with her ex."

"I never see the same kid twice."

"He doesn't have twins."

"Familiar then." Clay corrected. "I dunno how you know only five are his. One time, they were all girls."

"You were undoubtedly medicated."

"They were Asian."

"You tend to hallucinate, you're given meds."

"I don't even know which ones are actually his."

"Not all of them are."

"Or how many are girls. Or boys."

"Janine's two are girls."

"They all call him Dad."

"He's raising them."

"And Janine and his ex-wife are like, best friends."

"First ex-wife, yeah." Brock felt the ice in the pit of his stomach begin to thaw, felt warmth trickle in, spread. Talking utter nonsense with Clay always made him, somehow, feel better.

"I think some of those kids are hers." Clay continued. "The ex-wife's, but not Trent's. That make sense? Like, when it's his turn to get his kids, she sends hers as well, you know?"

"Janine doesn't mind."

"He got any kids with the 2nd wife?"

"No."

"How many with Janine?"

"Just one."

"Dunno how you know that."

"What are you doing here?"

"Taking a break."

"From?"

"Lopez is an asshole, Metal tried to throw him out the window…."

"From the third floor?"

"Ray complained to Jason."

Brock's lip curled towards a smile.

"Jason told him to open the window first." Clay took the bottle of juice from Brock's hand, took a drink. "Apple?" He wrinkled his nose, made a face. "Ugh."

"Suppose to be."

"You do like your shit sweet." Clay mocked, handed back the bottle. "It's warm."

"How'd you get away?"

"Sonny's snoring." He replied simply, implying Sonny had been his babysitter and had fallen asleep. That wouldn't go over well with Jason. "They're still arguing over what to do with me while Trent's gone."

Frowning, Brock licked his lip, hesitated. "Uh, why's that?"

"Oh, he's making Blackburn understand he's going with you to Germany." Clay shuddered, sat up straight, stretched his back, slumped. "Ain't no way in hell, I'm staying at Trent's without him."

"I'm not gonna be home for a couple weeks."

"Neither's Trent."

"Can't you stay home with Rebecca?"

"Jason babbled something like; 'she ain't Lassie, you get lost in a well, you're gonna die there, 'cause she ain't never gonna find you." Clay extended his arm. "Your bandage is bigger than mine." He joked. "Metal offered to take me home but Jason yelled at him. Guess he lost me once in his own house and his dingbat wife-wanna-be didn't remember letting me in."

"So, that leaves Jason." Brock teased. No one would ever consider Sonny a safe, reasonable babysitter. Not even for an adult male highly trained in the arts of survival. Proof of that was sitting right here next to him. And Ray? Pfft...yeah, Bravo 2 was never a consideration for the job of babysitting Clay. Huh, wonder why that was. "Who says you can't stay home alone?"

"Jason." He said morosely. "Trent. Blackburn. They do know I'm almost 30, don't they?" He was silent a moment. "I don't get it."

"You even clear to fly home?"

"Not yet." He cupped the bandage on his arm, winced. "When my fever goes under 100, I can board a plane and deal with air pressure or altitude sickness, I dunno, something. Stopped listening to Trent babble." He waved a hand about. "Whatever."

"Guess." He really, really wanted to go lie down somewhere. He guessed Trent had given Clay something stronger than Tylenol for his fever because he was unusually chatty.

"Ain't your fault."

"I took my eyes off you for seconds Clay. Turned my back and you were stabbed. Let an EMT see my hand and you were sedated. Went to get coffee, someone tried to smother you." Brock said bitterly. "And _because_ you were sedated, you weren't in any condition to fight off your attacker. That's on me. That's _my_ fault."

"All's good." Clay said easily. "Just…thanks, you know?" Brock blinked, his breath hitched. The kid was thanking him? What the hell for? "Risking your hand, 'cause of me. Wish you hadn't, but you did, so yeah, thanks." He shrugged. "Shit happens Brock, we can lay blame on Metal for leaving us to go get the Humvee. On Trent for not making you go back with Ray and Sonny and...yes…" He held a hand up with Brock opened his mouth to argue. "He cudda made you." He nodded when Brock accepted the chastisement. "Or maybe it's Ray's fault for letting us stay and help. Jason's for getting his bell rung. Davis' for the wrong intel, Ellis' for the op going sideways, the shit show that followed. Blackburn for…"

"I get it." Brock cut in. "I get it."

"Trent said, with surgery and rehab, you'll be good as new."

And how the hell would the 'mere medic', who hadn't known that an hour ago, know that now? He sure as hell hadn't been reassuring and comforting while he'd scolded and chastised as he snipped and clipped; not even when he'd finished cleansing with saline and began the arduous task of applying many, many steri-strips.

"He's been on a conference call with Doc and the surgeon you're gonna see in Germany." Clay added. "You were, uh, unconscious, and he sent photos. Doc got on the phone to the hospital. He can make shit happen, he wants to." Clay pushed at his bangs that curled damply. "He's decided I have to remain at the infirmary until we fly home," He made a face. "Because he's going with you to Germany too."

Aah, Doc. He had the most experience with Clay, but was the team doctor who, most times, traveled with the team. One of the reasons Blackburn had chosen Doc to become Bravo's doctor was his connections in the medical field. Brock wasn't surprised he'd been able to contact the surgeon in Germany, just...was surprised anyone had thought to let him know so he could do so.

"And you?" Guess the good medicine man had decided Jason and crew were capable of watching Clay while he and Trent accompanied Brock to Germany.

Clay huffed, rolled his eyes, waved a hand about in a dismissive gesture of teenage angst.

"Get jumped, engage in a fight, suffer a flesh wound, experience a near smothering, and run a fever after going missing at a house party while you have the flu and you're remanded to the infirmary and aren't capable of staying home alone." He put the back of his hand against his forehead in a display of over-wrought-mother. "Geez." He gave Brock a friendly punch in his hip, sighed. "Truth? I feel like shit. Ready to go back to the base, go to bed, you know?"

"Even if it's in the infirmary?" So, the kid had parroted what he'd heard. Brock laid odds on the speaker having been Jason. And yeah, no Trent and no Doc, the infirmary it would be.

"Blackburn said he'd put a guard on my door."

"Kid, the ways we've lost you."

"Yeah, yeah." Clay grinned, blew him off. "One harem, a house party….."

"A bet."

"Charlie cheated."

"The snow."

"That was the hippy's fault." He rubbed his eyes, man, he was soooo tired. "Jeff's flying home with us."

Aah, Bravo's Tier Two team medic. Guess Doc _didn't_ trust Jason and crew to look after Clay.

"Does anyone know where you are?" Despite the meds Trent had him on, he grinned. Clay hadn't yet experienced the terror of a missing teammate, but someday he would lead his own team, most likely some variation of this one, and boy-oh-boy, if history indeed repeated itself, he'd be blessed with a reincarnated him and then, just wait. Brock, if he wasn't dead, would be retired but still a part of Clay's life. He'd hear the stories firsthand.

Clay was quiet, chewed on a lip. "Uh….yeah, sure?" He didn't move and Brock soaked in the moment, relished the feeling of sitting, sharing the company of someone he knew and trusted who wasn't mad at him, yelling at him or wanted something from him. It felt good. "Think…I shouldn't have gotten up here." He hissed. "Ow."

Brock didn't know why he was smiling. His position on the team was in question, his career was in jeopardy, his life upended. He wasn't ready to deal with Sonny, didn't know when he would be and that would cause discord among the team. He faced surgery and months of rehab, likely wouldn't know the success of either for some time. He really didn't know if any of _it_ was worth it.

He looked down as a heavy weight settled against his shoulder and Clay itched a cheek against his sleeve.

There. This. That. That right there. The complete and utter confidence, the trust their youngest had in his teammates; his ability to unwittingly give comfort while he sought it for himself…. _that_ was worth fighting for, worth protecting.

"Let's get you back." Whether it was Clay had known were to seek him out, knowing Trent wanted to go with him or hearing that Doc had said he would be okay, he suddenly felt a whole lot better. "Don't want Trent coming after you."

Minutes ago, he'd been wallowing because he thought he'd be going to Germany by himself. Granted, he wasn't thinking straight, was still smarting from Sonny's verbal attack, and was confused over Trent's attitude, but yeah, knowing he wouldn't be alone, made the entire situation a little more bearable.

"Eh." Clay waved a limp hand in dismissal. "He's got more things on his mind then Sonny losing me."

"Uh-huh." Oh yeah, kid was definitely on something. He was blunt and honest, while normally, he'd be argumentative and downright impossible to deal with. No way in hell, would Clay just casually talk about his teammates babysitting him or discuss they had a habit of losing him. Sometimes, Brock suspected Trent medicated him so they wouldn't have to deal with him. Hahaha.

"He's mad 'cause he didn't realize you were hurt worse than me." Clay explained. "And three of us have stitches in our left arm. Dunno why that makes him cranky, but he threw it in Ray's face, so it must bother him."

"No one tried to kidnap me." Brock returned. Man, the kid was warm. "Or kill me."

"Yeah, but he knew you'd hurt your thumb at the village. Hell, the look on Blackburn's face when Trent _told_ him he was going with you. Ray suggested he ask for permission and Trent actually bared his teeth at him." Clay chuckled tiredly. "And then he hogged the sat phone, talking to Doc which made Blackburn demand access to cell service. Once Doc got the surgeon via video, Blackburn gave up the phone as lost."

"Thought you were confined to bed in your room." Even three years later, the one thing Bravo continued to do was underestimate what the kid was capable of understanding when he was 'under the influence' of meds. It never ceased to amaze Brock, what Clay could figure out even when he couldn't tell you what number followed two.

"Got ears." He sighed. "It's hot. Why's it so damn hot in this fucking place?"

Having ears and the ability to hear, didn't explain how Clay had seen Blackburn's face, but his uncanny way of knowing things was what made him the excellent sniper he was.

"Uh, guess they got the heat on." Time to return Clay to the care of Trent, get him a cold cloth, something to drink.

"Think memmbe Katie will make that sponge cake?" Clay didn't move, though his fingers twisted and tugged on the loose end of Brock's belt.

"Thinking maybe you're jumping the gun assuming you'll be allowed to go home with me." Oh yeah, Brock would fight his way back to his team. No doubt. "It's dry as dust, dumbass. No icing."

"Hey, we all can't eat sweets like you can and not gain a pound or five." Now that he had Brock within his sights and the teams dog-handler was upright and talking, his body was taking delight in making him feel every ache and pain he'd accrued digging in the village. He might not remember everything that had happened and what he did recall, certainly wasn't what actually transpired in the order it had occurred, but even while medicated he'd known Brock had been hurt. "Those cookies though," he made a face, "yeah, she doesn't need to make them. Oatmeal, blah." He felt like shit, bet Brock felt just as bad – maybe worse. "Sonny's an ass." He offered, knew it was time to go. "Someone outta toss him outta a third story window."

Yeah, it was gonna be a while before Brock would even feel like thinking about forgiving Sonny. And how the hell did Clay even know about any of that?

"He might put up more of a fight then Lopez." Brock went quiet, felt the warmth of his teammate against his side, sighed shakily. "He uh...I dunno Clay...gonna take some...time."

"He's a pansy-ass little bitch." Clay murmured. He was feeling the effects of the activity in the village, the fight, the stabbing, the medication. His must-keep-going train of thought was derailed now that he was with Brock. "He feels like shit for getting on your back about what happened to me, but he's Sonny, you know?"

"You get jumped, stabbed, smothered, and I'm the one getting surgery." Brock was relieved that Clay didn't push it further or try and make Brock see and accept it was just Sonny's way, to let it go and move on. He couldn't do that. Not yet anyway.

"Been there." Clay replied quietly. "Not fun, nearly losing a leg, learning I'd keep it, but maybe not return to Bravo. Sucks." He itched his chin against Brock's sleeve, slumped against his side. "Just remember, you're not gonna go through this alone." He lifted his head, reluctantly sat up. "Even though you got a fight coming with rehab, not gonna be so bad." He'd be there every day, help Brock with the exercises, he owed him that because his friend probably wouldn't be facing surgery and rehab at all, he hadn't dove over the bed and tackled the would-be murderer to the floor, engaged in a wrestling match - you know, saved his life. "Guess we should go."

His clumsy slide to the floor made Brock smile. The kid wasn't so spry and agile now that he'd been up awhile.

"I'm sorry." Clay said seriously, helped Brock slide off the counter, gain his balance. "I know you gave me the meds the doc gave you, and even though Trent said they were inadequate for your injury, still you..."

"I took the pain meds, gave you the antibiotic." Damn, how did Clay know all this?

"Infection though, won't be good for you...oh-oh." Clay bit his lip. "Guess we took too long."

Jason had somehow appeared in the doorway.

"Done with your little sulk?" He asked Brock, reaching for a hug, held tighter than necessary, longer than expected. "You." He poked Clay in the chest with one finger, his other arm around Brock's shoulder. "Didn't have permission to leave your room, let alone the floor."

"Wanted to see Brock." Clay quipped. "Wasn't taking anyone's word he's okay, 'til I saw him myself."

"Trent told you he was fine."

"Trent was throwing a fit."

Jason ran a hand through his hair to hide his expression. True that. He and Ray had been speculating where Brock might have gone when Sonny had emerged from Clay's room, all sheepish, and reported the kid was gone.

Metal and Lopez had been no help, Ray and Sonny had taken to arguing and Jason had just ordered the interpreter to start a search when Trent had ceased his conversation with Blackburn to tell them Clay had gone after Brock. How he'd known that, Jason still didn't know.

When the medic had been met with silence, he'd huffed and pointed out Brock would most likely have gone to the place he always found comfort – anywhere there was food. Leaving his team to collect the prisoner and get ready to leave, Jason had set off in search of the cafeteria.

"Can we leave yet?" Brock asked. He really wanted his bed back on the base. Thin, lumpy mattress it may be, but it was comfort and familiar and he wished to seek it. He slumped when he remembered he wouldn't be going back there. Guessed a shower was out of the question as well.

"Waiting on Dutch to come get you, he's on his way." Jason steered his missing duo away from the elevator. "He'll take you to the air field, Chuck and Greg are already there - they found transportation to Germany. You'll be in good hands."

Chuck and Greg were on Bravo's Tier Team with Jeff and were Bravo's preferred pilots. He knew them well, called them friends. At least he wouldn't be totally alone in Germany. He didn't recall Clay telling him Trent and Doc were going with him.

"Cerb..."

Jason sighed. "Forget the damn dog Brock." He snapped. "Focus on yourself."

Brock licked his lips, turned away. He was focusing on himself. The 'damn dog' offered unconditional love and comfort. A nudge from his furry head, a lick of a warm tongue, the weight of his nose on his thigh, the soothing task of scratching his ears - all offered silent support that Brock desperately needed right now.

"...cell calls are getting out now...take him home with us," Jason was saying. "...he'll listen to Clay, but Doc agreed to take him to the air field."

"Doc?" Clay questioned dubiously. "And Cerb?"

"Once Davis got Brock's duffel, packed up his shit - you can shower at the air field before the flight," he told Brock, "Cerb didn't let it out of his sight."

"Not alone though, right?" Clay pushed. "Boss?"

"Alone." Jason confirmed. "Chuck and Greg left for the air field before Doc."

Shower? How? His hand was braced and wrapped and immobile and secured securely against his side via bandages and a sling. And he still didn't know where Trent had found the medical supplies or had known what he needed.

He didn't say anything but his face must have reflected what he was thinking, because Jason patted his shoulder.

"Won't be the first time Trent's helped you shower. Davis is sending food, get you something good to eat, then you can sleep on the flight."

"Doc's scared to death of that dog." Clay laughed. "Outta be a tense ride."

"Laugh now, blondie." Jason teased. "Gonna be a long flight home and you ain't gonna like it when we get there."

"I can call Rebec..."

Jason reached out, tousled his rookie's hair, tugged an ear. "Sure dude, you can call her. But Betty Lou will be picking you up when we land in Virginia Beach."

Clay stumbled to a halt. "Say what? Who? Bet...Betty...BLACKBURN? Aww, hell Jay!"

"We land, we got debrief. Then want to follow up with Mandy. She's staying here to crack the guy who tried to kill you."

"But the Commander's _wife_?" He protested aghast. "What'd I do?"

"Ran away from Sonny."

"Then punish him! Not me!"

"Oh." Jason's grin was terrifying. "Done deal."

"How long do I have to stay there? Can't Katie take me home? Don't say it's until Trent and Brock come home. No way. Nuh-nuh, not fair. This is Sonny's fault."

"You're the one who left without permission, without telling anyone where you were going. Sonny's going swimming and you're going home with Betty Blackburn. Suck it up and deal with it."

Brock stared at his shoes, the emotions rolling through him threatened to make him cry. "He's medicated, huh?" He jerked a thumb in Clay's direction.

"What was your first clue." Jason sighed. "He's hard enough to keep track off when he isn't high as a kite. Tell Brock good-bye Clay, gonna be a week or so before you see him again."

Clay didn't speak, he grabbed hold of Brock, hugged him so tightly, he was clinging.

"You got this." Clay patted him on the back, gave him another tight hug. "I'm okay, thanks to you. I'm a pro at rehab and I'll be at your house..." He stuck out his tongue at Jason. "To help you."

"The others wanna say good-bye." Jason opened a door, let Brock and Clay exit first. "Sonny's been sent outside with the men from the base with the prisoner. You can catch up with him later."

Yeah, Brock thought, this was all worth fighting to keep.

***END***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Summer into Fall, y'all! It's only July and I've had enough of Maryland's hot, humid, muggy, it's-air-you-wear, weather...


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